Poetry | Journal

The sadness always hits mid day
mid stride
a sucker punch of ice wind barreling down a hillside.
Hikers call it a wind train. For them it comes in the dead of night,
while burrowed in tents and sleep sacks. Katabatic.
The bluster shakes every grain of grime from their brow.
You share the power and the intention.
Mother nature takes no mercy tearing down a landslide,
she thinks not of those in hiding when the mountains shake down snow.
Her selfish ways though, are acceptable.
We are guests of hers.
Living between glaciers we’ve carved into highways,
when Mother cracks side walks we do not turn bitter.
Simply break out the concrete and slab it back together.
I am not a guest of my own heart.
When I shared it with you, I did not relinquish ownership.
Selfless, not helpless.
So when the sadness hits mid day,
barreling down the tunnels of my rib cage
destined for the heart
I batten down, lock the door.
I choose not to hurt.