Stairway
by Sandra Grace Pyeatt

Some weeks it’s easy to believe
that God, or whatever you call the divine,
cares about you
personally.

On Monday morning a bullfrog
rested on a cement landing
of the long outdoor stairway to work,
glistened in glare cast by bare bulb,
and startled
me awake.

Tuesday afternoon sent me
a messenger: a caterpillar,
with five long black hairs
rising above its dull yellow fuzz.
She folded herself in half and stretched
forward down the banister.
I savored the pull and release of muscles
in my strong legs, swinging arms.

The next day, at the bottom
of the steps, a sapphire butterfly
wove sky around me.
Thursday a cricket hopped
across a concrete step, crossing
my path and halting my descent.

And this morning, as I reached the top,
a cardinal swooped above me,
settled on a leafy branch
and whistled, lifting my eyes
to the sun-drenched fog.

Author's Note: The poem reminds me of feeling loved by the universe at a time when it was needed, no matter what my intellect might have had to say about it. I am an on-again-off-again poet, as well as a teacher, family member, friend, reader, dog person, walker, and community member.