He was eighty-seven, and one day he
made a wrong step on an icy sidewalk
and he fell, breaking his hip. It was just
past dawn, and he’d gone out to put some wood
in the furnace that heated the house. Down
on his hands and knees, he crawled across
the yard but couldn’t climb the steps or yell
loud enough to wake the sleepers sleeping
in their warm rooms, so he pounded against
the side of the house, and they found him there.
After that, it was just a matter of repair,
repair. The ice melted; the days grew warm
and green. He learned to walk again, to lift
each foot as in a dance—each step a gift.
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