Brave

Death licks its paws after each meal and rids itself of us. 

I’m stuck on a ladder of my own making, turbulent 

skies and so little time, darting vision, well-meaning rust. 

Death looks through daring eyes and illusory permanence. 

The marks on time signed by broken waters, forests and views, 

falling, falling, falling through the cracks of society. 

Why play it safe— when everything I have ever known ought to 

be stone cold cement filling the fractures of piety? 

The fruit at the end of either bend might never ripen. 

I’m looking every direction but north, and construing 

the cherished fate of winding streams and life-giving lichen. 

So, my love, hold me close. Whisper in my ear, wooing 

my soul. Tell me the hollow wind is worth letting go, 

and my body knows the rest of this curious, sap road.