In the steep
I find myself pressed—
breath caught between gravity
and the pull of becoming.
The climb is not gentle.
The stones cut,
the air thins,
the path narrows.
But in the steep
I learn my balance.
My hands remember strength.
My heart remembers rhythm.
And when I reach
where the ground opens,
I will not say the mountain broke me.
I will say the steep
shaped me.
Author’s Note:
A poem about the climb — the weight, the balance, and the becoming that only struggle can shape.
Warmth in the midst 