There are boxes of letters I’ve never written
and thick photo albums filled with versions
of me I might someday be. There are stacks
of tall boxes packed with cliffs just waiting
for me to fall from them and wardrobes
filled with wings in every size.
One corner is kaleidoscopic with blue butterflies.
There are countless trunks stuffed
with worse case scenarios, plus
some shoes I inherited so enormous
they don’t fit in the attic, much less in a box.
I never know what I’ll find up here—
violent rainstorms, temples of dew,
the faces of the dead, red foxes, orcas,
the stench of city streets or a maze
made of lilac trees—and sometimes fear
keeps me from scaling the stairs.
But sometimes, not knowing is the thrill.
And so with pencil and blank page,
I climb into this place where it’s never too late,
this place where anything can happen,
even wild splendor, this place where the future
trembles, waiting to be born.