Turning the handle

You say I swept out the cobwebs from your mind,

chased away the critters nesting

in the corners, darkening them

until the room became a prison, insular

and draining.

But you were the one who kept the door open

when it threatened to close

just so I could take shelter from the storm

chasing me.

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Mountain climbing

I can see the top of the stairs.

It doesn’t look far.

 

Just like a mountain doesn’t look that tall

until you stand

by its roots

gazing up at the sheer

enormity

of it, and all your hopes

skitter off along the horizon,

with barely a wave goodbye.

 

But I know I’m not facing a mountain.

I’m facing fifteen rectangular boxes

stacked vertically yet veering forwards

to create an upwards path.

 

Should I convince myself,

yet again,

that my wasted muscles will let me walk

to the top?

 

I don’t know.

 

Maybe I should just tackle

the stairs like a mountain –

my mountain –

and climb.

 

I think I could do that.

If I try.