Invoking Frost

In the south, we have no birches to bend,
Neither do we get snow or ice to weight them down
In a manner that would incite my muse to bleed.
But more and more I find
As this life hurtles past its equinox
That I'll dwell on simpler times:
When my brothers and I would take turns
Inflating our adolescent egos
By commandeering a 55 gallon drum
And launching it down a steep incline
To see who could hang with it the farthest.
As the barrel would careen at breakneck speeds,
Negotiating the deformities of terra firma,
And the deflections of loosened earth and stones,
And some few unimpressive trees
There would be moments of zero gravity
When one felt as if he was in the clouds.
While the one was curled up in the fetal position
Pushing out against the rigid walls
And holding on against the centrifugal force
That was working to unseat him
It required all his focus
To avoid a premature ejection
Out through the open portal
With its payout of disjointed fingers
And bruised, bloodied elbows.
As I repeated the ride over and over again
Not once did I consider
That I chanced a broken neck, or spine,
Or ruptured spleen. What did I know of fear?
It was the ensuing climax that I strove for
More so than the adrenaline fueled ride itself.
Having gotten away and coming back to earth
It mattered little whether the ride ended
With me inside or outside of the barrel,
It only mattered that the world
Had not spit me out for good.
Riding barrels was the closest I ever came
To being a swinger of birches, and
And I'd be remiss if I did not see the similarities.
To this day if I close my eyes for long
I can imagine I am that child in the barrel still
Waiting for this wild ride to finish,
When I can once more exalt:
Life is all affirming. And launch out again.
One could do worse than be a rider of barrels
When he's not got his father's birches to bend.

-IamTroll †