humility

ten-speed, twelve years old,
too late: downhill, brakes out.

stomach-twisting, wheel-churning freefall
gravel wipeout, then roll into the thistle ditch.

this is humility: humus, the dirt in my mouth, 

the dirt of which I’m formed,

and I don’t have a girlfriend or anything,
but it feels like someone just removed a rib.

 
my mouthdirt is bloodmuddy
my palms are thistleful 
and my mortality has never been sharper, 

never cut deeper than here in this ditch.

but as I try sitting up,
try to assess what’s broken
besides my bike’s brakes,

I discover unforeseen grace.

 
yes, my glasses are twisted,
yes, my blood mingles with manure
on the Kansas gravel,
yes, the shock is past and the sting has started

but I missed the barbwire fence
and meadowlarks are singing
and the horses are running for joy
out in the pasture.

in short, despite all evidence to the contrary,
I find it is still good –
very good –
to be alive.