Bouldering

One must cling onto what one can when the world
Swoons beneath the feet. In the instance of falling,
The scrabble to find purchase, I discovered the 
Perfect fit of shoulders in my palms; how easily 
My fingers seek out the grooves and valleys 
Of another hand, holding on knuckle 
To knuckle, turning white with effort. Hold on tight, 
And crash through the other side. I am reborn, and 
Breathless from the view at the sweeping peak. 

Behind me, what remains is a yawning cave that exhales
Gently to the world, curling into itself to fill an emptiness 
The shape of my spine. There is a cool still pool that 
Stares back and pulls me into the arms of sleep.
This is the calm after the climb.