At the edge

The waterfall 

clings to the edge of an abyss

with its fingernails.

It hangs,

and lets go.

It falls, 

loose, 

liquid,

floating free of gravity’s weight,

wispy white hair billowing 

in the breeze of its descent.

It plunges into the dark silent pool

waiting at the bottom. 

The ripples of its passing spread, 

then fade,

absorbed into the greater flow

of many waters

gathering into the valley. 

An old man 

clings to the edge of an abyss

with his fingernails.

He hangs on,

and lets go.

He falls, 

loose,

limp,

floating free of life’s burdens

wisps of white hair clinging 

to his scalp.

He plunges into the dark silent pool,

waiting for him.

The ripples of his passing spread, 

then fade,

absorbed into the greater flow

of many lives

gathering into the valley.

-- by Jim Taylor, August 2018