Staircase at Fifteen
Ascending, her centrifugal
influence captures me
and I follow,
breathless,
witless, wordless,
despite all longing
and shared
discretions, in spite
of the thundering
pulse
and the incessant
demand to act
or run.
She pauses, looks
down, sees
nothing.
Suddenly freed,
spinning off
and slowing down,
shrinking,
far below, on equal
footing but so
apart,
never to meet
in truth, unable
to define direction or
motive, I remain
fixed as she moves
higher, far away, close
but up,
always up.
O at the Edges 
Love the second stanza, the sound and sense of it.
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Thanks very much. It seemed to describe that time…
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True at fifty, or even at seventy. How do we reach for something when we’re not really sure it’s what we want or what we would do once we have it?
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I’m more certain now, or perhaps more willing to take a chance, than I ever was during my younger days. A renewed sense of mortality has helped with that. 🙂
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