I don’t get to be the same person each time, but still,
think of all the atrocities I’ve climbed out of.
It helps to carry a rope.
I sound ominous but what I’m saying is gentle.
A rope accompanies you as you climb,
shows you where you’re going,
up, up.
And eventually the people will want to be led out through the woods,
pastures, fields, rivers, creeks, and streams to the shaded garden
where they will raise their children.
Not all people will want this.
Just the ones who burned down the last garden.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
