Gratitude for the insightful suggestions of If You Please.
I climb up steps in early spring,
Mother awaits and folds my tears away,
The world is already too much.
If there’s a sound, it would be a robin song,
The air still except for a securing breeze;
Nothing changes shape nor turns away.
I am still in full possession
And worthy in and of myself.
The first person pronoun
has not yet slipped.
What light is visible only on the highest bridge,
And then only very late on moonless nights?
What compels us to cross that span?
Stripped of a name and trailing purity:
Ceaselessly intersecting, ill-fated lives.
© ross 2020