THE FINAL FALL
A branch breaks at the top of an oak, clatters through the too-loose grips of lower limbs and lands in the new snow’s too-shallow grave.—Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 02-09-12
A bough burdened with foliage
swings wildly with winds wound
through woods that must rot
somehow when growing skyward
stops, pulling these branches away
from ungathered stars. A broken
branch clatters through weakened
limbs that would not save its fall
into a frigid grave of new snow:
it is the axiom of growth, that one
dies as soon as the climb has gone
higher than is needed to tickle
the ribs of gods who would rather
not find a jaywalker in the sky
who has dared stray into sublime
pathways that are also diving cliffs
of those who strive to live not lose.
Either way, it is a hard final fall.
---Albert B. Casuga
02-09-12
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