Wooden stairs

The stairs winded there quietly in dust
Of  ancient sap from forests of memory
Whose skies have survived in our dreams
Whose earths now belong to underbrush.

Their  darkness survived with old rope,
A rope greasy with hundreds of hands.
Some hands have not survived  bodies.
Rope's grease shines like a black snake
Running down from its higher darkness.

You and I look into each others light
On the higher darkness you are a light
On the lower,I am your light by the rope.
Add your hands to the grease of history.


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