THE FINAL FALL
A bough
burdened with foliage
swings
wildly with winds woundthrough 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 gonehigher 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
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