Letter to a Bridge Made of Rope
I don’t trust you. To the shepherd, herding his flock
through the gorge below, it must appear as if I walk
on the sky. I feel like that too: so little between me
and The Fall. But this is how faith works its craft.
One foot set in front of the other, while the wind
rattles the cage of the living, and the rocks down there
cheer every wobble, and your threads keep
this braided business almost intact saying: Don’t worry.
I’ve been here a long time. You’ll make it across.