You’d think four decades
Were enough,
Yet these lessons
Do not take.
We scramble to shift gears
In a struggle
To sort out
Our sudden, swift decline.

It’s getting away from us now.
And we should have known
To stay low
But the faces and voices
Are like magnets
To the iron in our soul.
Or maybe it’s the moon’s influence
That pulls us up
And across the great divide.

We were giants —
Our shadows cast
Into the valley’s rippled folds.
But we never could adapt
To thinner air.
This time
We were three days at the top
Before to breathe
Became to struggle.

And so we must revert
To the only lesson
That ever held:
Contracting, shape-shifting,
We make ourselves small and quiet.
Like snow,
We yield,
And seek the downward paths
Of least resistance.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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