Steps

　　by Grace Schulman

　　 "And down and down and down，"

　　 the toddler's mother sings

　　 as he clears every ledge.

　　 Midway we cross their path.

　　 In rain， the museum's steps

　　 loom like the Giant's Stairway

　　 to Guardi's Ducal Palace.

　　 "And up and up and up"

　　 is what I do not say

　　 as you stagger for balance.

　　 Once I'd scaled that summit，

　　 hunted over the crowd，

　　 and saw you below， holding

　　 two hot dogs and white roses；

　　 you vaulted， took the steps

　　 two at a time， then three，

　　 and leaped to where we met.

　　 Your smile is broader now.

　　 You see more. On this day

　　 of wavering， we hear

　　 a Triton blow the horn

　　 where Giotto's Magi open

　　 hands that rise in air：

　　 up， and up， and up.