He lay on the ground with his leg shattered.
Only seventeen, a friend of a friend
His shirt, blood and mud stained, was in tatters.
No words were there to explain or defend
Why another was missed while he was picked.
It could have been worse, he could have been the bike.
It had been a blind curve, he had been tricked,
A gentle rain had fallen, summer like
And when the semi-truck swerved to miss him
He tossed those discards that he had been dealt.
He let go the bike to the right on whim
And as he ditched into the rocks he felt
That his accident was worthy of note.
And so when my daughter told me of it
To his mother, a short letter I wrote:
The skin we're given at birth does fit
And holds the body, the mind and the soul
And just as an oak from an acorn grows
That the person under skin is made whole.
The unity at birth on John still shows
Despite his accident
And I am thankful.