Unsure,
she remains suspended in thought;
the question is,
should she stick with a winter she knows,
or risk it all to find fabled spring?
Terror freezes her to the spot.
But what is faith, if not falling?
And what is trust, if not taking a tumble?
Perhaps precipice predates promise;
maybe reward is a result of release.
Does she have what it takes?
She’s hanging on,
unsure…
Precarious precipice, this –
one foot in land of the living,
the other in the grave.
What to do,
when death’s throat opens wide?
Soak in sunshine,
breathe with virgin lungs;
count each second
on your knees.
Stop the clock with grateful gaze,
arrest time’s march
by counting,
counting,
counting moments,
inspecting each,
letting them drop
like seed to soil,
to reap a full harvest
of
Now.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 