I stumble from a ladder,
mis-stepping through a rung —
preoccupied, peering up
to some lofty destination,
a change of venue for star-gazing.
During the thrill of ascension,
I loosen my grip, testing
if some trinity might rescue me.
And I fall, dream after dream,
each time I reach the REM —
stratum by stratum, through ice crystals.
Snagged in the belly of combed clouds
I release all I am into wind
free-falling as a piano tinkles
a light-hearted etude.
— Sam Barbee
