Some days, I climb—weathered heels, quiet resolve—
Not to rise above,
But to feel the wind among the trees,
To dwell in the view,
And feel small and grateful
Beneath a sky that forgets all names.
I’ve stumbled upward,
Found joy by mistake,
Failed with great effort.
Still, I lace my shoes again—
Not to arrive,
But to saunter like wind across embers,
Stirring life from quiet flame.
Other days, I stay close to the ground—
Watch a leaf turn in the wind,
Listen to the sparrow trace its threadless path.
The world moves on,
Because someone else is tending the fire.
Today, I sit beside the warmth.
Still, the sky finds me.
I let the fire tend the rice in its own time,
Let silence settle where questions used to burn.
The day asks nothing of me,
And I return the gift in kind.
I call it enough—
And mean it.
The world speaks in edges—
Win or lose,
Climb or fall,
Be this or that.
But life moves in quiet arcs—
A breath drawn in,
A breath released,
A rhythm without verdict.
Even the moon must lean into darkness
Before it begins to glow.
Even the sage, once,
Reached out a hand and asked the way.
To walk is sometimes to arrive.
To sit is also to move.
The path is neither ridge nor ladder—
It’s what soaks your feet
When you stop searching.
So I climb—
Not to rise above,
But to feel the ache of becoming,
To pour meaning gently
Into the cracks absurdity leaves behind.
To watch it seep away,
Still pour again, and believe it mattered.
To awe at peaks that were never owed.
Then rest awhile.
Then climb again.
