THE WOUNDS THAT BIND

An afternoon ramble. The strong sun
anointing my head with its light.
A neighbor's peonies position themselves
to display their petals of pastels.
I walk with a cane, now seventy-eight,
having fallen a few weeks before.
A crow cruises past from the left
as I topple on my face on the asphalt.
My wire-rim glasses lacerate the skin
and the fall fractures my nose.
It fascinates me how the quick
blood creates a widening pool
that will stain the concrete walk
for at least weeks after this moment.
I remember the emergency call
and the rescue crew immediately arrived.
The long weeks of recovery ahead
have become like a rehearsed script
a line prompter whispers as I perform.
The raw indentation disfiguring my
brow I'll pretend is a dueling wound.
And then I remember on Father's Day
the deep scar on my father's forehead
he got as a child on his family's farm,
when he fell under a plow's steel rake.
Now we have become close in our falling.