Imagination’s Stairway

At the foot of the rise
the steps breathe like a sleeping animal,
each riser a rib,
each creak a warning disguised as invitation.

Something above hums, not silence, but a held note,
like a radio tuned between ghosts.

He feels it tug,
the way tide pulls loose shells,
yet the banister chills his hand

as if remembering other fingers that climbed too far.

In that dim attic perhaps trunks bloom with borrowed lives,
hats that whisper in forgotten alphabets,
photographs that rearrange their faces at night,
a clock that counts sideways and refuses mercy its ticking.

Beneath the darkness…

A quieter hoard,
regret folded neatly like winter coats,
joys misplaced in corners where dust practices patience.
He imagines each object leaning inward, listening,
as though naming him before he arrives.

Still…

The first step waits,
servile, obediently dangerous,
a tongue of wood tasting for resolve.
He hesitates between warning and wanting,
like a match unsure of flame,
like a map that erases its borders mid-journey.

Above…

Something shifts,feather, claw, breath,
and the air spills downward, thin as rumor, thick as memory.
Because there’s much more to be derived in the attic besides storage,
where draft, musty air and broken window has made entry
for some of nature’s bird and squirrel explorers…
and from that dim, open seam,
a hush drifts down the stairway,
soft,

unclaimed,

almost his name,
whispering,

“We’ve been waiting for you.”