This is going up a bit late, argh! I’m not handicapped/differently abled/whatever term you prefer, but with the Big Tent prompt about feet, I thought I might try to project a bit. And with snow falling all around, I thought about how everyone becomes kind of ungainly when walking through a deep fall; does that make it seem like a bit of poetic justice? It’s a secret sonnet as well, with one little stagger put in there on purpose, because I wanted to bring metrical feet in as well. See if you can find where I hid it. :)
I am iambic,
walking through the scattered stars and hexagons of snow.
Hop-skip, hop-skip, the wetness soaking past my braces,
drowning socks and shoes.
These blessed Saturdays,
made up of men and women tripping,
how to place their own two feet.
It makes them seem more welcoming: deep drifts hide these
corrupted ankles, twisted toes, unsteady knees.
In sunlight, call me crippled;
but so’s everyone on blind white mornings.
I will paint the blankness with this dream: that now
I’m a gazelle in sun-drenched Kenya,
stunned by this exception,
still brave enough for each astonished step.