A hand on the side of a cliffseeks a hold, a crevice
upon which to lift
to haul and hoist our temporal frame
What is a job
or a child
our faith and beliefs
if not a thin ledge
What are friends
if not the belay
the rope
the hope and encouragement
and if we find ourselves
on the side of the cliff
and the hand can find
neither grip, nor fissure, nook or slit
what then
when the rope grows slack
and the clouds multiply their number
in gun-smoke anger
herded with the whip of wind
what then
echos
what then
mocks
what then
4 comments:
These last three are incredible writings. Very powerful. Moving day today, cannot wait to get back to normal, back here that is. H
Thank you Sunshine. :-)
Yea I agree, we are living on the edge...literally and figuratively!
Yes, and sometimes the fingers grow weary. :-)
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