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Ladder Sways in So Many Ways

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I linger, to pause for a while, between the ladder rungs of what's been done below, and what is yet to become above. Below me stretches a dizzying array of tiers. Each step is a relic of a decision, I've made to take the next rung up or down— Some firm, some sure, some splintered, and weathered. Each step was risky, presuming the footing was safe and there were no snakes. How readily and willingly I gave my trust to old wooden rungs— eroded, grooved, and split by time. How quickly I mistook, their quiver and shake when stepped upon, for the uncertain pulse of my own anticipation, believing it was a promise of firmness yet to come. Above, clouds veil the climb, with no shape to follow, no handholds there are certain. They're shrouded in the thick blur of not knowing. The next rung may be the last, and beyond it — where does the path lead? Behind me, the descent rungs, are slippery with snaky mist, hard to make out, when suspended like this. Still, my hand thrusts upwards through the mist, fingers closing on whatever hides there— a beam, a rope, a door, a ledge, a serpent, or only empty air. Will it bear me? How can I say? I push up quivering on the rung beneath, letting the weight of what has been, thrust me up to what can become. Ladders are great for self-reflection.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025




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