Oh, Summer of Sandy! You temptress, you tease,
I had big plans—bike rides, pickle ball, dancing in the breeze.
But you had a plot twist, a cruel little joke:
Second base, softball… then snap! Something broke.
Hobble, bench, ice, elevation.
My softball season? Brief. Dramatic. No celebration.
Six weeks proclaimed the doc with a kind smile.
Here’s an enormous boot, crutches, no walking for a while.
People said, “Well now you can rest! You can write!”
As if forced immobility equals artistic delight.
But pain meds and poutiness didn’t fuel my words,
They just gave me permission to stare at the birds.
No metaphors came, no plots did I weave,
Just a couch-laden TV zombie with reasons to grieve.
I sensed my son begin to judge,
As creativity ghosted me harder than a grudge.
Friends made food and put away my dishes,
While I envisioned ways I could sleep with the fishes.
Puzzles, painting, nothing felt right.
I lived in misery, trying to find the light.
Week one, to three, then five.
I made it through; I’m still alive.
Now my dogs sigh loudly at my crippled pace.
The squirrels mock me openly, right to my face.
The neighbor who jogs by with her perfect stride?
I hope she steps in something my dogs left outside.
So here’s to you, summer—my season of grace,
With your heat and your joy and your slap in the face.
I’ve burned the boot as I enter the world of the moving
With a newfound gratitude for this body and grooving.
