The work of unburdening, of letting go, changes us in small ways.

————

The path from the walkout 

basement to the burn barrel 

I have not navigated since early 

spring slopes and dips 

rocking my slightly off kilter hips 

and wobbly knees and fickle ankles 

like some cartoon conveyer belt. 

A stray two-by-two wood block 

punches my unsupported arch 

and nearly bucks me and my armload 

of minutia to damp earth. Composed 

entirely of water, I always feel 

I am swimming from point to point 

one breaststroke from drowning. 

This cool autumn day 

relieved of the duty of watching 

for small frogs and tiny translucent 

toads and wily copperheads 

I focus on mastering the terrain 

to the can where I burn shells of things 

I have not addressed and tend fresh 

wounds of those I have confronted. 

Do or don’t do; there is always a cost. 

Tossing the last box onto the fire 

tandem flames gather to consume 

this new fuel. Uniting as one giant blaze 

flame stretches forth and licks my hand 

reminding me of the price 

for this unburdened walk back 

uphill through the slick grass.

By Shelly Norris

From: United States

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