Cliff-Edge Day

Cliff-Edge Day

(“His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence.” 2 Peter 1:3)

Holding tightly to another cliff-edge day
I hear the dirt clods tumbling below, beside, away.
I see the patch of grass, the brashly painted island
with boundaries tightly drawn.

I do not wish to write another screed of pain,
the words have piled up like broken lava
and I stand atop the cone, the crater, knowing
sooner or later
I will tire of the subject and take a 

European vacation just to prove I can still
live outside the lines.

There is a force (I shall not say “hand” or “arm”,
anthropomorphism does not suit the spiritual subject
in concrete verse)—(yet, I should not say “force” or “power”,
as if something like the hum of machinery kept me
from falling)—

There is a devotion (not mine, but Another) that
refuses to see me fall, though boulders roll unevenly
passed the appalling picture without explanation;
I am secure, though I would rather crawl alone past
the constant question, “How are you?”

I am beaten, I am worn, I am divided, I am torn,
I think with dust in my eyes, I see with  my mind
addled with icy sunshine; and lay quietly on the same
couch (my body imprinted in blue cushion by now)
when I would rather stand Grand Canyon tall, rising
early, adhering late to the Canyon walls.

Yet, all is stalled by the fingernail grasp that
uses a whole day’s energy by half a day at noon.