Windswept
Collar upturned hours after the wind.
The smell of coffee grounds clinging to my fingertips
in late afternoon.
An ache in one Achilles tendon, the memory of yesterday's heels,
a whole day spent propped up, pitched forward.
Illusory pressure on the bridge of my nose, on my left wrist
long after the glasses and watch have come off.
Look how the body honors every impact.
I love the whole concept and the final line: "Look how the body honors every impact."
ReplyDeleteI agree with Annie, and the title gives such movement to the body of the poem. Thank you for this.
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