Edge

If you're not living on the edge,
you're taking too much space (1).
So said the cigar and the man who smoked it.
Right up there, looking down the rift in the cliff
between sky and depth surrounded by loneliness
warm, bathing in a "contre-jour" of light
peeping through a hole against a grey sky.

His friend, the high mountain wind
gently touching his arm, his back, his neck
carrying Montecristo's fumes in a straight line,
thick, bold, though frail as life.

Hesitates.
Feeling more pressure would make him fall
it shows it cares by tipping edelweiss' head
at which he stares.

One of those piece of time
to frame and remember.

SB

E:30-12-2008

(1) quoted from an anonymous author.