I read a poem by a man who
when he was twelve had a
bicycle accident, which left

him a quadriplegic. Twenty
years ago at fifty-three I
had a mountain biking accident

in which I broke thirteen
bones. If I had not moved
my head at the last nano-

second, I would be a quad-
riplegic like the poet or
I would be a dead poet. I

shuddered when I read about
his accident. Sympathy pains?
Did I feel a twinge of guilt

that I survived with just a
shattered clavicle never to
be one piece again and lots

of bumps on twelve ribs and
aches and pains? Do I feel
guilty that I forget to give

thanks every morning when I
crawl out of bed that I can
crawl out of bed? In the poem’s

last line, the poet says his
soul sings. I am grateful for
many things including that

poet’s singing soul.