On Helping An Old Woman To Church Poem by Lazarus Knix

Like a ball-chain and prisoner we walked
I, the ankle, and her, the hard iron
So stubbornly attached to me, that I-
Shortened my long, leaping legs with each pace
To a creeping tip-toe on the sidewalk
Her light footsteps, still unnaturally
Quick, patted the earth like the leaves about us
Wrinkled and gray in hue, disconnected-
From the source of their livelihood, their branch

The Autumn wind was working against her,
Pushing the dark coat off of her shoulders
I knelt down to aid her, painstakingly,
I dressed her fragile body in fabric
“It is too cold” she murmured, I thought not
Autumn was a show to me, as for her
It was a reminder of the winter.

Slowly we made our way into the church
As worshipers shot disapproving stares
Ah, the oh-so over pious that think,
The ends mean more than the effort, their walk
Is nothing but a brisk “inconvenience
While hers was the pilgrimage to Mecca,
A harsh, slow walk through bitter terrain
In time, in cold, In dissonance, in pain.

As we made our way out into the yard
The evergreens danced in a white-whirlwind
“This” I said softly to myself “Is hope”