The spring of my broken ankle
soft breezes blew through my
bedroom window’s lacy white curtains.
Fifty times a day I listened
to Pachelbel’s Canon in D major
Pachelbel, creator of a beautiful canon
as it drifted through my room.
Waiting for my body to heal,
my restless soul left me
meandering meaninglessly through
the fields of my father,
chasing the past.
When it returned
I was gone.
Mind out of body.
Soul out of mind.
Broken bones mend
but for the heart there is no cure,
no magic pill.
Some hurts penetrate
lodging in our marrow.
There’s no excavating them.
Slowly, like piecing together a
shattered Dresden vase,
my ankle healed that spring.
Eventually my soul
found my body again.
On the outside,
On the surface,
all was well,
all was normal,
the spring of my broken ankle.
