Free

Mid-day, as the sun is high above,

When things should be obvious,

I am ever and always standing in a fog

On the narrowest of bridges, less than

The width of my foot and over an expanding

Canyon I am sure  there, where I’ve come from,

There are triumphant steps made certainly,

But also vast numbers of stumbles saved by the hooks

I’ve accepted in my heart when seemingly

No other way remained for standing. See how

They hold me up on this careful crossing? Later

I realized how slowly I have to move to

Keep the pain

Minimized as the illusion of safety nets

Reach up to whip me into line

On the tight, tight rope

While I dream of emancipation on the

Other side of this abyss even as Freedom

Emerges from the fog on a banner of promise

Suspended somehow, and leading me to

Believe that hope lies

Not on the other end of this bridge

But in the grace of letting

Hooks rip out as I fall into me.

2012 © Amanda Morris Johnson