by bob county
A passage polished by many travelers.
There is a ladder. The ladder is always there.
Hanging innocently, swinging side to side
she knows she can grab it.
Each rung after rung she goes down
makes it more a part of her body.
She knows what is for, where it will lead.
A piece that is necessary.
She must clutch it. It is like water
and air that runs through her body.
A race of women, riding and climbing
to a space of blue sky. Every impulse
sets lighting exploding at her core.
She is absolutely certain and mad.
In galaxy that falls like snow upon
her sweat. The ladder streaches and
jumps to her touch. It is her instrument.