Winter Stairs

Your legs are tired,
no longer fresh with youth,
you step slowly now,
worn from climbing endless stairs

that seem to lead
nowhere,
tired

of the snow and ice
that plagues each step,
making each one no longer automatic
but a thing of choice,

each one a thing of possible peril.

Somewhere ahead, the summit lies,
scenery perhaps, or love,
perhaps spring or the promise of spring,
or perhaps

more stairs.

You take the next step,
careful of the ice,
wanting to run like the youth you once were,
but more afraid of falling.

Until you stop
and count your scars,
those that show and those that only you know,
and you suddenly realize

you survived them all,
all the missteps and slippages,
all the angry angels that pushed you
off your steady footing – you emerged

still intact,
broken yes, but healed,
with stories to tell and celebrations
deep and meaningful, full of gratitude and wonder,

And you laugh,
and dance,
and gallop up the stairs
suddenly eager for the next
and the next, and the next.

About this poem

Burned once, twice, three times in life, we often approach it more tentatively than we did when young. We’re more aware of the consequences. I’m no different. I’ve had to relearn the fine art of diving in, of dancing up stairs, even when I don’t know exactly what lies at the top.

The picture was taken in back of the Hyde Museum in Glens Falls, NY, just last week.

Tom