It's in clouds

scudding so low I can clench them.

The sky can't be wrestled into possession 

any more than my soul can balance

on the summit of a needle-point. 

I tumble down the escarpment,

ad nauseum,

to where the soil clots in my hair.

It's where I learned to climb.

Every so often

I want to scamper back up,

barefoot over boulders

to get the forest out of my feet,

rappel back down and drink 

with cupped hands from the wild stream,

to taste erosion from the rocks.

My feet were cut by the glass on my path,

And I knew the cure,

I knew what would make the pain seem bearable.

Though the medicine I would seek was only temporary,

Inducing such ail after the fruitful burst of happiness.

So I keep walking,

The glass becoming fewer, smaller and less often.

And I know for ever tear that escapes,

I become stronger in a way that will follow me through out my life.