I can’t breathe up here.
The limestone—
the sandstone
cuts my bare feet.
My head is in the clouds.
I am the cloud,
excellent at holding
it all in
but easily passed along
by the slightest wind.
But I can’t breathe up here.
It’s too high—
possibly my vertical record.
I can barely see
the scree below
of could have beens
might have beens
but never weres.
The waves stretch out below--
with their white-tipped fingers,
“Come back down” they plead--
but the blue up here—
the freshness—
like the smell
of a baby.
I know I’m out
of my league up here
but my eyes look out
and sometimes up—
rarely down
unless I catch a glimpse
of the familiar wavings.
This divide I stand on—
this escarpment—
formed by fault
but too inviting to move along.
