Can you throw yourself over
the edge
of the moment?
cross the divide
between where you’ve been,
and where you might begin
a new direction?
You can see it plainly,
the path behind
—lake gleaming in the sun
dark shadows beneath the rocks,
holes plunging into the past—
but ahead, around the bend
is only sky,
blue with promise
and only smallest clouds
on the horizon
to signal storms ahead.

You sit on a rock,
eat cherries,
drink cool, clear water
look out at the lake’s bright surface,
reflecting.

Going ahead is not the question.
It’s how you see it,
whether to continue,
or throw yourself ahead
into the mystery,
with no maps,
no charts,
only hope
that a way will open before you
with some sign,
—a lucky penny
or smooth, sleek rock
or tree aflame at sunset—
to tell you to have faith,
to take your bearings
from a newer
brighter star.