LADDER DIES BY LIGHT

Whitethorn spear raised higher than the lilacs,
honeysuckle strangling nettles and the bramble,
scent so sweet I almost fall into tall grasses
wild clover already to my middle. Moss on stones,

steps, doors, trees. Where are the feet? I counted
their steps to measure my height. Tall as a tower,
taller than salt. Before people can come, I’m no good
even for fire. What with the worm, mold, the rot?

I used to fret over the lack of rest, the moving
me around just like a tool. But I’m no fool here
now in this hibernation. Know I am as useless
as this house I’m leaning on.

PUBLISHED IN GREAT LAKES REVIEW

APRIL 21, 2022