by Janet Wilcox
Stumbling through
the throny brush
and sandstone slopes,
I reach the brink
of rocky doubt.
Far below my goals
of hope and home
lie hidden by hazy mists
and forgotten promises.
Like a bright banner
the road waves bold and true,
a ribbon of hope marching
on to distant goals.
Satanic switchbacks
and cunning crevices
entice me to the edge.
I tilt and twist,
almost tumbling
onto the shattered rocks below.
Poised precariously
I descend.
Tentative, yet sure,
I seek a trail,
a guide,
a handhold on
the Rock of my Salvation.
