Gliding

Location

 

As I drove along that treacherous bridge

The cringe worthy icicles pattered on my windshield

Oozing from the frozen foliage that crowded the overpass.

My car trudged slowly but confidently,

Tediously until it reached this bridge.

The meteorologists always advise against it,

But what is a modern man to do

When works piles up and absences are no excuse.

As I ruminate upon the exigencies of my existence,

Mother Nature steps in-with her gentle, but guiding hand,

Ever the more gregarious on this day.

It was as if she were telling me to stop, to stop

Living a life defined by this machinery-

Its destructive capability exceeds Nature’s benevolent intent.

So, this pensive daze overcomes me,

The flurries of glistening white snow glazing my windshield

Until I am blind, blind to the warnings of Nature.

Suddenly, the car jolts from left to right;

I am left paralyzed and shocked.

Quickly, I brace the wheel and rotate it

Towards the direction of my impending doom

With the frozen muddy waters bumbling underneath,

Puncturing holes in its surface to invite me.

I must act fast before I lose to Nature-

My best friend who would never chastise me

But might punish me with death.

Thus, I thought it necessary to

Thank her for her absolute awe-inspiring beauty,

And her absolute ability to destroy man.

 

If only I could return to those days

Of floating along the ice, making figure-eights

And observing my melted outlines in that

Frosty biome surrounded by mountains

And a pair of benches for the spectators.

No gas nor electricity needed,

Simply the steam provided by my skates

And my wood-carved stick

With tape wrapped around its edges.

It is slithering across the ice

That sets a young man free

Looking for the perfect puck to bury

In the back of the frozen net,

Inciting the few present townsfolk to ooh and ah.

No scoreboard, no air-horn here;

Simply the clock tower that is Mother Nature,

Her son the Son and her daughter the Moon

Refereeing over the games-

A witness to the sheer skill

Of her most youthful inhabitants,

Who know nothing of the ton-sized dangers

That await them. She never forgets to lead me

Back to that icy, amicable pond,

Where legends were made and memories created,

I am always more composed

With those Eastons floating under me

Than with those faulty pedals and tires

Sliding away from my innocent feet,

Directing me into the disciplinarian

That rests in Mother Nature.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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