Forward Motion

Life has a way.
Sashay down its path in
confidence that this or that
no longer bothers you, controls your
heart, your tolerance has grown
and you are feeling good about
the distance you have come, and
then life throws a curve. Toe finds
a rock beneath the desert sand,
and down you go, the button
you'd forgotten all about gets
pushed and suddenly it rushes in
once more, the hurt and ugliness
of others, of yourself, and there you
sit in dust from which you came,
to which you'll go, just sit,
important minutes during which
decisions made become the axis
upon which your world will turn.
Get up, move on despite the burning pain,
or pout there, hoping that someone
will come along to join you in the
misery. (They won't.) I'm brushing
off the dirt, myself, and may not
get far down the road before my
strength is gone, but at least I'm
moving on in general direction of
oasis, far off, out of reach for now
but there. I know it's there. I know it.
And if it's all mirage, so what? I'm
active, using muscles that would
surely atrophy just dormant,
feeling sorry for myself. Forward motion
has to be preferred to sitting stagnant,
melancholy, in the mud that others
hoped would cover, creeping up the
arms and legs until becoming just
another lump along the road
to stumble over.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013