Tuesday, May 03, 2005


by Zinta Aistars

Every night the moment,
eyes fluttering open,
skin drawn tight,
fisted suspension
in air
as if floating
on dreams. Again,
there it is: upward
in its beckoning,
proverbial stairway
to the heavens,
each step rooted
in dark and crumbling earth.

Every night the climbing,
toehold on scrambling pebbles,
the frequent fall,
wobbling handholds tearing loose
and hanging on air.

Luminous morning
open like an overripe fruit
just at that moment
when eyes weigh heavy at last,
heart still pumping
the blood heavy effort
of reaching and reaching
through endless layers
of sleep.

Night waits,
and stairways glistening
with dew.

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