rows of overlapping scales
went out with the disappearance of the dinosaurs,
died on a Medieval joust;
discard the armour.
let Me in.
she remains suspended in thought;
the question is,
should she stick with a winter she knows,
or risk it all to find fabled spring?
Terror freezes her to the spot.
But what is faith, if not falling?
And what is trust, if not taking a tumble?
Perhaps precipice predates promise;
maybe reward is a result of release.
Does she have what it takes?
She’s hanging on,