At the edge of the fabric we hang, swinging freely
over the drop, hearts in our throats, hearts in
our hands. Roadsigns long since disappeared;
so few songs and tales to light the way, here
in the outer reaches. It is frightening,
being first. Lonely too, and there is always
the possibility that we are truly lost; that we
are not simply searching out the best route; that there
is no pass over these high mountains.
Should we turn back? It’s warmer near the center.
But oh — the clear cold beauty of the mountaintop
at night, under the unforgiving stars… it is
easier to breathe here, isn’t it? Am I wrong?
I know. You’re tired. I’m tired too. My legs
are so sore these days. Here…let’s build a fire.
We can stop for a little while and rest in the light.
We can decide where we’re going in the morning.
But you know — I don’t think we’re lost yet.
July 18, 1998