Here, on the playground,
the morning stretches wide—
a sky so blue it swallows you whole.
And you, a small figure, climbing
the red pillar, moving hand over hand
up the ropes that knot and twist
like veins, like lifelines.
I watch from below,
the ground a familiar place
where footsteps fall and scatter—
but you, you are ascending,
breath held in the still air.
Nothing is simple in this moment,
yet everything is—
the cord that bends beneath you,
the thrill in your chest,
the boots pressed firm against braided paths.
If I could speak, if words were clear as the day,
I’d tell you how these small victories—
climbing high, standing above—
are etched into the bones of memory.
Someday, you’ll look back and wonder
at the web of ropes,
the pillar red against autumn’s burn,
and the vastness that carried you up,
into light, into air,
where fear gave way to joy,
and the sky leaned close,
just to watch you rise.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 