The Rocks

Forty not far,
My feet fall sure and fast
On crags that amble
Toward the sand.

I should be too old
For this by now;
The children squint and see
A person out of place.

My fatal step seems
Overdue -
My Icarus, inevitable;

Yet somehow,
I’ve always been
Safer at risk
Than at rest.

My folly -
This fraught force
Fueled by fear
Of inertia;
Always fractured -
My racing thoughts subside
When gripping granite shards.

I move and remember
Strength, agility and power;
My instinct drowns
That rhythmic drum
Dyslexing daily life.

Flesh torn, breath heavy
I leap onto the shore
And slide my sated feet
Across the singing sand.

Once again,
I have not slipped
And dashed to pieces.
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© Savannah Smiley Sterrett 2024