Where I tread...

I picture myself a tight-rope walker, a
thread, a strand, spooled and crafted
by wrinkled hands. I manage a balance
but often my foot missed the grip
and my fingers clasp the wire, my
body flaps like a drying sheet
dancing for the warm wind.
Arms are levees for the rest
of the machine and pulls the
vessel back to its feet and
back on the beam.

Every breeze is a bulldozer or
an exhale-a hurricane or
flatulance-an avalanche or
a drizzle-every breeze is
another test and sometimes I
fail buyt I see the rope and
know the rope. I see the fall
and can judge it's depth. I see
sky and nothing higher-well I
make my highest ground