The Bitter Root

I have quaked before danger
And survived.
Each trembling moment
Fashioned in my breast
A fierceness
A resolve
That is untaught.

Comes a time
When danger darkens
My sill
I greet it
As an old friend.

I know the bitter root
The sulfur
The tang
And heartbreak
Of fear.
I steep it as tea
Strong
Black and unsweetened
By lofty grit.
I drink its dregs
Without shying.

Comes a time
A man laces his boots
And walks to face his enemy
In open ground.

Comes a time
Going out
Doesn’t mean
Coming back.

But it’s the going out
That makes the man.