. . . a tightrope walker,
a pendulum, swaying on a thin thread,
follows earth’s wobble around her orbit
tracing pattern’s in the church floor’s dust.
. . . as a counterweight to the heart:
a moment of calm, the last thought thins
like the sun’s rays seen from a distant star.
The clarity of a winter’s morning,
the air coldly crisp throughout a blue sky.
I sway upon the edge, both hands outstretched
waiting on the right puff of wind to come
dissuade me from this precarious point.
(August 2001-April 2002, from primogenitive folly)
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