(Everybody is alive and well, and the news is about my husband's job. So it's not life or death. Don't worry. We will be OK.)
This poem is included by the Poetry Foundation website under the category of "Growing Old," and that's pretty appropriate, since what is growing old other than getting over a whole series of things?
What You Have to Get Over
by Dick Allen
Stumps. Railroad tracks. Early sicknesses,
the blue one, especially.
Your first love rounding a corner,
that snowy minefield.
Whether you step lightly or heavily,
you have to get over to that tree line a hundred yards in the distance
before evening falls,
letting no one see you wend your way,
that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,
meaning “to proceed, to journey,
to travel from one place to another,”
as from bed to breakfast, breakfast to imbecile work.
Wend your way over to today's roundup here.