Climbing

written by Eric Schiller
copyright Eric Schiller
1/11/2000

I find myself at the bottom,
Alone.

Those who once held me up . . .
Pushing. Draining. Holding me down.

One hand lets go. Another puts a mirror in front of me,
Pulls me up toward the next rung which appears,
I jump for fear of the monster I see.

Climbing. Climbing.

Summer days go by and more hands come in.
Promising mostly to be friends.
They reach in and pull me up some,
By finding out how I hit that bottom rung.

Climbing.

Though I didn't see it, the old hands always pulled me up,
As they still do, while the new ones now pull sideways.
They rip me into several directions for their own purpose,
Sometimes fighting each other, as if I'm a commodity.

Stuck.

The hand that stopped the fight,
wasn't old, wasn't new, and certainly wasn't my own.
It was the changing wind of fall,
And that other life, with its sick but necessary call.

In the past, this autumn call . . .
Usually produced a different fall for me.
But this time I found something more.
A new hand appeared, offering nothing for sure.

Climbing (but I didn't know).

This hand showed me another mirror, and something new:
several more rungs, my choice to take.
More hands appear, offering help . . .
Asking only help in return.
We all join, and begin our climb.

Climbing. Climbing. Climbing.