I wake early and often

sweat springing from

my neck, my feet, my collarbone

the change of life, or one of many

I’ve been trying to write a poem

about a tightrope, but I no longer

know why, or care

the connection isn’t clear

something about being

tied in knots

holding, binding

an image in my mind

of me suspended, cocoon like

sagging into the ropes

even as I struggle to

break free

it’s a mirror of sorts

that life I get up and live each day

the one where I am tied

to work, to home

to the same worn paths

I’ve now walked for decades

I return to the tightrope

and that elusive balance

and the way the rope is never ending

but some things end – most end

thus the night sweats

and the binds

real and imagined

and the rope

and the urge to let it all go

and fall