I’m teetering –
on the brink,
poised to fall or fail.
You call to me,
soothing,
your voice a promise.
Hand outstretched,
reaching,
I weave toward the sound.
It guides me,
patient, calm,
a beacon in my fog.
It warms me,
expanding,
warding off the cold.
It fills my head,
tingling,
stirring all my senses.
The numbness abates.
The fog lifts.
I turn back from the edge,
and into your arms,
and know that I’m safe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem