In my early morning’s waking dream, I found
myself with my husband and son, driving
together along a formless mountain pass
of leaves and rocks, too close to the high cliffs’
uncertain edge. Like the fragility
of a marriage on the verge of crumbling,
I warned him of the recent rains, the chance
of slides, but he was deaf to my concerns,
aloof, steering me closer to my end.
As the front tire slipped over the edge
the windshield broke and flew away with the wind
like a bird pent up then finally released
into the misty morning air. Soft green
trees and dewy leaves lay like a blanket
on the earth below me, beckoning my fall.
With no effort to stay, I inhaled and slipped
through the path the windshield made, content to die,
but hesitant to speak my last goodbyes,
to my young son, innocent of the sometimes
need to let go, to fall, to leave. As I fell,
the wind, like a good friend, held me steady,
sweeping away all but my purest thought,
my love for my son; I landed in the embrace
of the soft trees outstretched branches, knowing
I lived, but I was not afraid to die.