Everything On The Lines
I throw out the line, hoping it hooks well on the other side, so I can pull it taut and proceed. It’s different every time. Sometimes it’s being an angel, the wings invisible, but I know they’re working, that I can trust them when I need them, and I soar. The miracle of walking on air. Other times my feet are only for standing still, like roots, deep into the soil, stable but unmovable.