it’s been three days since I first dashed
from hoop to hoop, in muted light.
but now, I fear, my body’s lashed
at me, the soul with weakest might.

in wintry rime, I failed expose
my barren corpse to flurried frost—
a season stark of warm impose
on heated flesh, and thumping tossed.

and now my fibers, drenched in fury,
moan and gripe beneath my shirt.
my hibernation, weak and weary,
pays back the loss in double hurt.

so here I sit, (I cannot stand!)
with hamstrings ached and gluteus sore;
sweet lactic acid reprimands
a season filled with workout poor.