Partaking

In my own way, I partake; 

not like Lawrence of Arabia, 

not in the swirling sands, the blinding wind, 

not crossing a white expanse, 

caked in suffering and fortitude. 

I pull my sick body out of the house.

I sit down in the Adirondack, face South,

feeling the sun's magnetic warmth in January,

the cold biting at numb fingers as I crochet stitches,

counting into the silence, stopping to recount.

But then the sun ducks behind the telephone pole;

the cardinal noisily knocks the birdseed onto the logs.

And as the sun descends, the cold raises its voice

decibel by decibel, sun sinking by degrees, by stitches,

until I'm done counting, and I must go back inside again. 

It isn't much, not impressive. But important

in its own way. And at least I had my one small dose.