Stairs

They were wooden stairs,
a rickety handrail and a door,
paint peeling, exposing bare wood.

I came there three times or more.
Each time I feared I’d fall until your
hand grasped mine firmly and
you drew me in, encouraging.

I never saw an interior, or knew
if this was where you lived, the relief
too great from frustration I could not
reach the threshold on my own or
stand tall and balanced on the stairs.

In my dream I knew where I had
failed, a belief clear and evident;
the friends I never knew I’d made
had waited anxiously.

And there, without
thinking, on the stairs
to an imminent arrival,
I saw the link.
© 11 March 2008, I. D. Carswell