The jig

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.