The Edge

Who says that I chose this edge?
Those rooted inland may mock my cliff,
my straining roots
that clench to rocks and boulders—
themselves on the brink. 
Who says I have chosen to lean? 
Perhaps I’m bending
to better hear
the sea, the wind,
which I heard long ago
from a distance—
inland. 
No, I was not always on the edge,
not always in the spray of the sea,
not always bracing and aching. 
I was like those who,
rooted a safe distance away,
made plans and trusted
the ground wouldn’t move.
And it didn’t.
But the sea moved—
like a pendulum marking
imperceptible time,
crashing ashore
again and again,
moving the edge
nearer and nearer. 
Until—
here I am.

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