Healing Steps

Bare feet touch cold earth,  

the ground unfamiliar,  

a silent witness to the weight  

of what was lost.  

Fingers grip the wooden rail,  

each breath a slow, steady inhale,  

muscles remembering rhythm 

of a body that once ran.

The air tastes of renewal,  

the sun a quiet observer,  

of this fragile rebirth  

a seed breaking through stone.  

Each step is a question,  

each step is a promise,  

a quiet defiance of the dark  

that once held me down.  

And with every faltering move,  

the earth cradles my soul,  

whispers, "You are not broken, Zen 

only mended in time."  

The path ahead is unclear,  

but with every step,  

I reclaim the space between  

what was and what will be.

(Actual x-ray image of my feet)