By Stephen Johnson
It will, like a limb crashing-down
behind you on a wooded path,
cause you to turn, startled,
wrest from you, gasp-and-exhalation,
a replaying of things unchangeable,
and renew raw vigilance,
inspire enumerations
of co-incidence’s kindnesses,
cement old admirations,
and change you . . again, now
that change commands respect,
switching places with fear.
You renegotiate, with kindred fate,
admit your need, of one honest escort,
as you- traverse the shifting plates.
Stephen Phillip Johnson is a Mountain Home carpenter. Writing is his itch. Within the halls of medicine, where he’s been (repeatedly) healed, reside flocks of muses.