I fear not being able to walk,
choking to death, and watching others
weep with pain when they won’t let me help.
I fear an old friends voice over the phone,
rich and deep,
saying he no longer wants to live.
Fear is a thirst for solid ground,
a cave and a fire,
with a way in, and a way out.
Fear is not always old, but it’s always new.
When old, it can be ignored,
like the midnight keening in the houses of the sane.
When new, it’s nameless,
something about to happen —
not death, but all I can imagine.
Fear leaves and returns.
There are no words to keep it away.
If only there were words.
~ from Swimming With A Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle
(Red Dragonfly Press, 2008)
