She bounces once back twice forward
stiff, her feet on a stretched high rope
that swings teasingly with her weight
at each turn of her feline waist.
She had paved her way into this,
with a small fist full of mistakes
and the other of bad chances,
vanished return in the distance.
The frost of her disposition,
the sharp tongue used for ascension,
I knew the sting of its incision,
also the stake in her motion.
If I draw hand across her back,
a net will shape under her sight
free to fog in a damp release
granting her a steadier path.
Hardest is forgiveness, and yet
it is sweetest to the giver.
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