From below the horizon’s muted edge,
where the earth softens its ledge,
I begin my daily climb
one broken rung at a time.

It’s not that the sky’s too high,
nor that my wings are made in Shanghai.
The problem is that I’m preoccupied
with my feathered quill’s stubborn battle cry;

You’re running out of time,
and will soon be calcified.

And yet, above that wavering line
a lone bird lingers over my rhymes,
reminding me that even unwritten scripts
can rise on the hush of tiring wingtips.

Editor: Erynn Crittenden