Soft, humid spring air rolls in....
as I soak in the quiet,
wrestling
--not as Jacob by the ladder did, with God--
but with possibilities and memories
and laden thoughts.
Wondering, pausing,
searching recollections
for shadowings of what might...could have been...
With melancholy ceaseless as a tide-
urging, pulling, whispering -
and hope laced with trust as an anchor--
binding, keeping me held fast.
And maybe I think...
through breathe salted by tears,
just maybe I am wrestling
by the ladder after all.

-Beth Haynes Butler