Even attempting to climb the perilous cliff,
I am not afraid of falling.
The sensual rhythms of this lonely morning
devour me, reconciled
to my private chamber, suspended.
Far under the cliff, the gulls
are united with the ocean, as that
deep blue speckled-white
beckons me to its bed.
Wolves and warriors are rooted to the hunt.
I am rooted to this risk, edge-clinging,
fated to ultimately rest
in the body of a miracle.
There are miles below and miles above,
awakening sounds of insects burrowing,
of swallows nest-emerging –
a holy vapour all around that fills
the void with necessity.
© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst