If snow had drifted in the night,
or sleet beaten on the shore . . .
if sheets of ice had glazed the road,
and wind whipped against your door . . .
and you were late—the clock ticked,
and stormy weather stole your time—
or if you took the path more slow,
worried into change of mind . . .
If you had veered, and turned back east,
to safety of your home and hearth,
huddled to outlast a storm,
and bowed to whims of Mother Earth . . .
Or, if the butterfly wings beat,
and altered atoms in the air—
the weather changed, chaos ensued,
preventing you from being where
you were, when steel met with steel,
crushing glass and cracking bones
and hands that clutched the steering wheel—
instead of broken, you’d be home.