Glass Ceilings

The sun catches cuts in the ceiling,
and I stop in my tracks
unable to move ahead or behind,
locked in an upward gaze.

My designated tool, 
a pick not an ax,
drops to the ground.
I stand still but restless
staring at the ceiling,
my design.

I squirm, and I twist,
but my feet stay planted,
and the volume raises,
then I hear,
 "Be still."

So I am for forever,
but really just for minutes,
and I spot a crack 
just right for my pick,
and a ladder pops in view,
so I climb,and I  chip
not stopping to 
look down
nor around,
not seeing what I found,
a golden ax on the ground.