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
Lovely!
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