by Vixie the Fox, maimed poet, temporary optimist
Today was perfect.
Not in a casual, “ooh look, the clouds are vaguely poetic” kind of way—
but in a divinely ordained, surely the universe loves me now kind of way.
The tea steeped with just the right amount of existential clarity.
Carl complimented my metaphor.
(Accidentally, but I’m counting it.)
And then—oh then,
I wrote it.
The poem.
The One.
The Opus.
A piece so staggeringly brilliant I wept into my own tail halfway through line four.
I named it:
“The Cosmos, She Whispers in Moss.”
(It had seventeen footnotes. All of them sensual.)
I danced.
I spun.
I monologued dramatically at a fern.
The forest trembled.
The acorns applauded.
But then—
in my spiral of celebratory whimsy,
I stubbed my toe.
On a rock.
A stupid, unfeeling, metaphor-ruining rock
with the audacity to exist directly in my path to greatness.
The pain was biblical.
My soul left my body.
I saw all my past mistakes flash before my eyes
(wearing smug little hats).
I collapsed.
In the dirt.
Cradling my injured toe like it had just delivered a devastating betrayal.
Which it had.
And suddenly, the day was not perfect.
The birds sounded sarcastic.
The breeze mocked me with its cheer.
Carl offered me moss tea, and I rejected it out of principle.
I am fine now.
Mostly.
But the poem?
I read it again.
And it’s…
still amazing, actually.
But my toe hurts.
So, I’m canceling joy
until further notice.
