It’s of the cliff I must speak to you now.
The rising cliff which holds our gaze like light
hypnotizes beings in flight. Look how
it invites each grasp, each foothold. Could night
warn us to halt, it would, but we would not.
Feel moist tease of this slippery crag, mock
of the crumbling ledge. We grab at limb’s rot,
anything to hold us as we climb: rock,
brush. This limit of choices teaches us
if we pay attention. This will to use
the barest tool as we clutch and focus
on balance. This effort to not confuse
scent of storm for pleasing breeze, denial
of approaching trials to our survival.
Roger Armbrust
September 1, 2010
