THE FALL

The Fall

My head has claimed a gnarled root
for a pillow;
Its rough caresses curve
with the back of my neck.
This upward view is all meandering whorls.
My eyes and I are besotted
like village idiots
drunk on acorns, oak leaves, and mistletoe.
If I rise I will stumble on my thoughts,
unspoken.
I cling to the ground with the small of my
back,
clutch, white-knuckled,
the short blades of grass.

But it is not the earth that quakes,
and I fell long ago.


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