Writing Through Cancer 10/25/25

Fears from Childhood

Fear of falling, fear of flying,
Toasted by hot or left where there is only blowing snow going by
And the legs of the grown-ups I hold to.
Rough corduroy on a cold cheek,
Is it a comfort or a dousing
Of rain sized spots on the pavement joining edges,
Until I am a puddle,
Lost to me, left to all.

Is it a bliss,
A fortune or a forgotten flop amid the jumble,
Freed from individuality.

By Rolf Stavig