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


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.