No Soft Place

In the Wet Mountain Valley.

You don’t often find
any soft place to land
when you fall from the top
of Mt. Grace. The ragged rocks
and jagged fingers,
evergreen, are ever keen
to slow your descent
for the price of a pint or so,
a pound if you wish, of you.

And so we chicane our way
in the embrace of gravity,
not some angel also fallen,
a temptress who enjoys company
on her wingless flight.
Her hug irrefutable,
inescapable,
sure as sin.

And sin, surely just a wrong turn
on your upward path,
was that faulty first step
into your final fall from
Grace’s cloud-shrouded peak.
But how else could you peek
at this view of colorfully
autumnal reality? May it be worth
your toe-stubbing trip.

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