The muscles in my lower back are clenched,


clinging to my spinal column like vines to a trellis,


but less lovely and more concerning


in their gravitational goals.


There are no roses on these vines,


viciously climbing the ladder of my ribs.




I fear a mutiny.




You see, I'd grown used to putting my limbs to task,


logging time and distance in the name of


physicality.


But this week of rest, as much as I'd hoped for it,


has left me rotted rather than ripened,


and my stiffness speaks a warning of potential famine


and failure.




I advise myself to stretch out in the morning


before taking on the day,


to prune back the prying ivy


which is now wedged between my shoulder blades,


to reach an accord with my body


and bow to its demand for movement


at the soonest possible opportunity.