Scenic Frosting

It is here at the waterfall where lovers unite and embrace,
and smile and pose, shrouded in hazy vignette.
Behind, the white column divides the cliff,
suggesting symmetry where none exists.
The balance is beautiful from below,
from a distance—

The white tongue laps up the same water it’s poured,
flinging glittering droplets into the air,
saturating the moment of romance,
which is beautiful from below,
from a distance.

However,

The real swell-in-the-chest euphoria
is to abandon what is safe and climb,
to look from above, from behind,
to peer down the mountain at
beauty born, lovely and new
So I climbed.

The stream it at peace with its fate as it accelerates to the edge
but I am unsettled and I follow the flow, chasing it
to its terminus, where the known unknown
draws me closer, closer to the edge.
I swell with energy and advance
toward the roar, to the edge
until I am looking down
over the edge
into the mist.

When there is no continuing on and the river drops
a settled soul might sigh and retreat
and descend safely to
postcard moments.
Scenic frosting.

But today, the river carries me
over the edge and I am
falling, falling, falling,
waiting to disappear
into the mist.

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