The First Rung

Silenced month after month,
Callouses of communication fall
Unused, flaccid, stale.

Poetry comes from the songs
We hear sung by life’s chorus
Of friends, loves, even foes.

The brace of expectation pulled
By the tug of mankind rubbing close,
Demands we respond in kind.

But we fell unpracticed, alone
Rusty, mostly silent. Today doors
Swing open and life asks that

We respond with cheer, rested, ready
To attack old tasks and paths hardy,
Alert and prepared. Alas, the creep

Of time has robbed a step. The hours
Unused seem to have held more than
They left of the stew of life, that buoyant
Elixir that lifted and blessed each day.

Granny would have said, pull on your
Hobnails, fill that poke, get off the porch.
You’ve mountains to climb and streams
To tame. Stop burning daylight.

Taking a deep breath, feet atremble,
We stretch to reach the first rung . . .