Walking Wobblyjawed

The bridge is shaky. Wobblyjawed.
The ropes that hold it above the water
are stretched and worn.
A few of the grey boards are near rotting,
dipping into the pond.

Still, you walk across.
willing to fall
rather than stay here
where the ground is solid
but there is nothing left to discover.
Nowhere to go.

About this poem

A little fear is not a bad thing, I have discovered. Amazing things often lurk on the other side.

The picture was taken at the Hebron Nature Preserve, not far from my house.

Tom