by Christine Fojas
There is no ladder--not of hair knotted
nor of sunlight on Winter morning, nor
of open hands. There is no bridge--
not of words, nor of stone; not of prism
unwoven, nor of root grown. There
is no circle--not of trees, nor of fairies;
not of magic; neither of light nor of shadow.
There is just a single mountain, a single
lake, a broken mirror, a cold breath,
and a flower wet with teardrop and dew.
There is you.