The Ladder

You look at the ladder leaning against

the tree where the bear sits hidden

amongst the crown of branches. You know

you can reach the bear. And you know, too,

the bear is dying of loneliness. You can see yourself

climbing rung by rung until you enter the green

sea of leaves above where the trunk begins

to thin, can see your legs wrapping against the bark

as your hands reach for surer holds. You

could climb higher above yourself

and remember how you spent your childhood

in trees like this, though you never had to

brave bears, fire, winds blowing in across the country

only to pass by whatever they touch.

That the bear is lonely is unimpeachable,

a sort of word you know must be connected

to a tree. You think of the bear hiding there and want

to holler at him, or her. The thicket of fur guarding

such willful paws, the sad eyes you know best

bred only in bears, who sleep with their sadness

buried inside them all winter. This must be,

after all, why the bear is hiding there.

And that’s when it dawns on you: you’re still

standing against the ground, the ladder rising

in front of you like a long winter,

and above it the warm breadth of the bear

breathing against the leaves, its body full

of everything you’ve yet to see.