I used to be fearless down to my core

I would move toward what scared me

so I wouldn’t be scared anymore.

I used to be fearless training on the mat

attacking my sensei, quick as a cat.

Thrown away into a joist-shuddering fall,

I’d bounce back to my feet like a super ball.

I used to be fearless driving out west

cross basin and range, I’d feel at my best.

My knees steered the wheel while rolling a smoke;

I’d sing my guts out after taking a toke.

I used to be fearless riding my horse

through chamisa, blue sage, and thick spiny gorse.

But from up on her back, it’s a long way down

and my super ball bounce might get stuck on the ground.

To stay fearless through life was once my goal:

to scoff and laugh through every fall and roll.

Now my bones feel more brittle and my step is less sure

and there’s still so much more I will want to endure.

Perhaps fear can guide me, give me a clue,

help alert me to danger, tell me what to do.

If I think of my fear as an old trusted friend,

at least I’ll have company when I go ’round the bend.