Steeple Climbing

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  • Life

    Steeple Climbing

    Step by step I climbed your tower
    Fearing ever to look down.
    Lofty heights are not for me,
    I prefer places closer to the ground.

    My knees get weak, they turn to jelly,
    My stomach begins to quiver.
    Angelic wings painted on my back
    They’ll not keep from falling hither.

    Balancing on the steeple top
    I feel my foot now slipping.
    Please excuse my lack of grace
    Tumbling from that narrow place.

    Eyes grow wide, jaws may drop,
    As I crumple to the ground.
    High expectations I’ll not meet.
    Prefer to sit at the Master’s feet.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    kacky2’s Poems (8)

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