Standing on the edge of the world,
Strings dangling in the midst,
Drawing closer and closer,
Somehow frozen in midair.

Feet planted, an immobile presence,
The ground grows warmer with brimming coals.
Muscles, mobility, and motion—incapable of moving forward.
A hand reaches for a closer touch,
But the closer reach is cold to the touch.

Warm air circulates, lifting strands of hair,
Moving up, around, and down.
Motion is repaired in a moment’s notice.
Hand and string clash—
Forward motion in a flash.

Thoughts of hope, no longer dashed,
United by strength,
Unexpected by time.