The Acrobat Sky

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze

swings down

from heaven,

out from the clouds,

through my astonished

disbelief.

You hang from it

by your legs,

both arms outstretched,

reaching for me,

swinging  back and forth

like the pendulum

on a grandfather clock,

time ticking away 

from me

with each pass you make,

hanging somehow by your feet now,

closer and closer.

I raise one arm.

Then both.

Our fingers brush—

an agony of brief possibility—

like a river flowing

past reeds. 

Impossible to grasp.

Now you hang on by your toes

and I take a leap of faith.

You fall into my arms.

We catch each other,

holding tightly

to the sound of flowers

we see in our barefoot eyes,

defying the gravity of hammered nails.

Just as you hoped we could.

Just as you knew we would

after climbing through

the open window

of Calvary’s closed door

and into the acrobat sky

where crosses spread their wings and sing.

By Ken Woodley

A trapeze
swings down
from heaven,
out from the clouds,
through my astonished
disbelief.
You hang from it
by your legs,
both arms outstretched,
reaching for me,
swinging back and forth
like the pendulum
on a grandfather clock,
time ticking away
from me
with each pass you make,
hanging somehow by your feet now,
closer and closer.
I raise one arm.
Then both.
Our fingers brush—
an agony of brief possibility—
like a river flowing
past reeds.
Impossible to grasp.
Now you hang on by your toes
and I take a leap of faith.
You fall into my arms.
We catch each other,
holding tightly
to the sound of flowers
we see in our barefoot eyes,
defying the gravity of hammered nails.
Just as you hoped we could.
Just as you knew we would
after climbing through
the open window
of Calvary’s closed door
and into the acrobat sky
where crosses spread their wings and sing.