THE FINAL FALL

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