THE EDGE

- after “Mohegan Island” by Robert Henri 1911.

I have come -so far. Endless sky

folded into endless sea.

A thin rail breaks the two,

stops me.

My frigid gasp -stabs my lungs.

Icy air scrapes my ears, my face,

its salty sting tears my eyes.

I came for clarity but no ferry fee

included that. Any brightness now

will soon be shrouded

by the approaching storm.

This is the place for cod and pirates

not deliberation.

Even this artist, knowing

the harsh limits of this desolate land,

hurried to stuff his pockets with one brush -

and just a few pigments.

Spending no time

to blend, he captured it

in quick smears with a stiff brush.

Its deliberate texture

unites sky, sea and land.

Rock and glacial ice heaved up

this jawbone cliff as high as it could go.

It rises to hold only me

and lonely sky. A few missing teeth

allow my peer out from this parapet.

Patches of snow

cling to shadow

or fearless waking clusters of grass.

I know now,

looking ahead from this furthest edge

is the only way

to look back -at how far -

I’ve already gone.