If Gravity Should Fail
On this mountain ridge, we camp at the lip
of the world, lean back in grass to feel
how a tilt of earth could make us slip
from our solid peak and spill
into the dome of starry dark.
It would be an easy way to leave
this land, rising like a spark
above our rock-ringed blaze, retrieved
by God straight into his heaven.
We have already half forgotten life
in those narrow valleys almost hidden
by spreading fog below. The grief
of ordinary days fades, expires
and we are pulled by night’s cold fires.
in A Rough Sort of Beauty
(Univ. of Arkansas Press)
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Louise Cary Barden
Corvallis, OR
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