Thursday February 09, 2012

A branch breaks at the top of an oak, clatters through the too-loose grips of lower limbs and lands in the new snow’s too-shallow grave.



    A bough burdened with foliages
    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

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