I’ve always thought it was symbolic
how women’s skirts try to trip them as they climb the stairs.
How although our bodies control the world,
the world controls our bodies.
Like a wicker basket,
we exist to be filled up
and carry the weight of someone else’s spoil.
When the brittle willow snaps,
we are broken,
because an apple could drop to the softened spring grounds,
and dirty its shiny, red skin.
Because a family of curious ants could trail in through the jagged hole,
and whisper tales about how the sky and the earth touch just beyond the horizon.
Not because we are incomplete.
A ship, after all, is only as important as its passengers.
We need to be picked up and fixed by strong hands,
and then we are whole.
And then we can be emptied again.