The Philosophy of Falling

I came upon a kindred slant

When in a recent forest.

I’d fallen, like a fresh felled tree

Like a nail in a coffin, with a thud,

And I lay still as death,

And as frozen as a February day.

This was indeed my kindred angle

Prone and horizontal at a full ninty degrees.

I resembled a canvas mat,

Pleased, I had somewhere

To wipe my sleet.

I slowly arose to my stumbled feet.

Kindred, because I saw at once

As the little persons see.

C 2018-19 Christopher Thompson

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