Wild haired and six
he traverses
the steep stairs and hallways
of his dreams
to rest in the ocean
of my arms.
I tell him I’ll take him back to his room
and will be with him there.
So together we walk back
through the dark house (the only home he’s ever known)
and he stops along the way
to gaze at the wall
as if he’s looking out a window
at a bright cardinal
or a full moon
or a rabbit scurrying across the snow.
But it’s only a wall.
When we approach the stairs,
I inhale sharply at the thought of a misstep
So I lift him with my hips
and he falls into me
like an eagle falls into the wind,
limbs nearly scraping the floor,
as I conquer each clumsy step
and for a moment,
when we reach the top,
I feel ashamed
that I haven’t carried him
like that for so long.
I think about him as an old man
and wonder if his eyes will still
shine like bright coffee beans
or if time and all that reading
will fade them to yellow
like the pages of an old book.
I picture his face adorned with
wire-rimmed bifocals
framed in salt and pepper hair.
his big hands thumbing through
my first book of poems
and finding this one
and wondering why
it all had to pass
so quickly…
and wondering why
it is so hard
for us to
wake up.
© Katrina Pierson
photo credit: Storm Crypt via photopin cc
The Dancer within 