Poem July 21, 1986 Issue

Climbing

MARIETTA G. LYON

At
my house
I have a stair
climbed
and climbed again.
No Everest here,
no glory at the top.
Just unmade beds
and clothes to wash.
And so I play this little game
(God's children never grow too
old for games of joy),
as foot upon the first stair rests, I say
(out loud, if no one else is home but me)
"The Christ is here!" then rising, reasoning ...
"and what is this Christ that I proclaim? ...
Why, it's the very presence of the power of God!"
Inspired afresh each time, my human feet are soon forgot
in wonder of the summit view.
No empty ritual this, no mindless repetition ...
but simply an ascending thought to match my upward step.