On a Ragged Point
I stand alone
on a ragged point
high above
a rocky shore.
Fogged in,
tucked in,
bony fingers
of cypress
cling to the edge.
Droplets make
the air palpable,
spider webs purled
by tendrils of mist,
dancing veils
of light and fog,
no hard edges,
no visible decay,
liquid silver
flowing.
Far below
the onslaught
of the tides,
relentless
bass of water
assaulting rock.
Otherworldly shapes
of cliffs emerge.
Tied neither
to earth
nor sea,
naked rock
floats free.
Above it all
the spiral aria
of the canyon wren.
First published in Yew Journal
Appearing in Before It All Vanishes and Crane Dance
