When out on wild limbs

When out on wild limbs, it's hard.
The difficulty is
whether to proceed to branch
in orderly organic fun,
sensibly, potentially true
- or stop and bud to leaf
and soak this sun.
Or sudden - lark about! And fly
- to other trees, or other sky -
or just concede myself
to breeze? The pleasant zephyr
everyone
was so delighted by,
refreshed - has shot itself.
Over a fatal inconsequence,
never hinted at. With a cocky
and pocket-sized comical

gun. Most

who shoot the breeze miss, but
its own aim tends to be
infallible. This breeze
has slipped an air too far, lost
its limb and felt the buffet
of gentle and desolate descending
blows, and never will be seen again
- nor ever was, alas. At least

there still is sun. It shines
warming down on everyone. And really,
all of us shall be released. It's just

way out on wild limb, the nerving
hunching, wincing feeling is
how close one momentarily gets

to striking root.
and drinking deep
and finding sense
and peace.