Forty

Posted on January 18, 2008

3


There’s a grace to falling.

Like deft hands skittering across a piano, notes tumbling out hurriedly.
Yet, a grace to it.

Like walking a giddy, high wall. And falling.
Not slipping, mind you. But leaping, of your own volition.

Falling from grace.
Falling to it.

Falling anywhere. Free falling. In love. Out of it.
Falling down.

A wedding of opposites –
The body effortlessly passing through a condition it is predisposed to avoid.

Strands of hair that flutter, barely escaping gravity’s clutch.
Arms that float on wind currents.
Bulk that fights a g-force.

A strange crescendo.

And the landing.
Sharp. Ultimate.

Like the cymbal, shaking out every molecule of music,
finally standing still, as a spicy ssss.

Posted in: Poetry