THE FINAL FALL

 

THE FINAL FALL

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