Post-Hole

by Aaron Brown, on humility

In it up to my hips      the snow

yards off trail    a shortcut turned ordeal

holding my three-year-old squealing

equal parts delight     then fear as I hand him

to my father    who crawls across the bank

himself toward me    away from me then back

afraid of the same sinking     before he rakes

the snow with his fingers     my son running ahead

to his Bibi on the trail    together to get help  

from beyond      and in his small boy voice

calling out hey     to each hiker he passes

hey to the ranger at the station    who only offers

a shovel     and hey to the man from South Asia

who then sprints in my direction    who knows

nothing about me    who pauses his pleasant

hike with his wife to come to the drift

where I embarrassingly am

all of them

with no business saving me

but they do   the child, his grandparents,

the man

                        asking are you okay?

                        my father his hands raw

nails chipped from the ice

my leg red from the cold    and numb

and the shoe we fish from four feet deep

never so in danger     of forgetting

all that I have    this world to numb me

with all it can give