::11:27:07::

::: She Fell :::

She’d fall to it again and again,
no matter what it was, or what covered it,
dust or sand, carpet, tile, or stone,
she’d fall to it in a crumpled heap,
and stay there, weeping, for as long as
it took someone to come to her.
Today it is a marred hardwood floor
surrounded by the white walls of a hallway,
and there is blanket in the corner
that needs to be folded but lies there, ignored.
Tiny pebbles stick to the hand that presses the floor
making red indentations that will soon disappear,
and they too are ignored.
The other hand is at her face, holding it,
cradling it, fearing that it might be the next to go,
because, of course, her heart has been damaged
by news of her expected, planned-for, horrible loss.
Her weeping is made of wails and moans and sobs,
and they are heard throughout the house where she lives,
they echo off the floors, and the walls,
the high, dusty ceilings,
and when we hear them, our hearts are damaged also,
damaged by the love we have for her
and our own imminent loss, unexpected, unplanned-for.
So we go to her. We go to her.
Despite our fear and our silence,
we do what she might want but we would not,
and we go to her,
we help her up from the floor to which she’s fallen,
to which we will all fall again and again.

Written by: ~ Josh Woods