Some days I stand upon an edge

And the soft hills of that yearned-for life

tread off in the distance,

Watercolor hills-- less real than I would make them.

Disappointment is a deep, blue abyss.

I would not venture to it.

But I feel it like a fog in the air on my face, 

I stand on the edge, and think quietly-- now is the time to decide.

Because it could be.

Too often it is unfelt and unremembered

what really makes us.

When we see the trees, silver in the summer

or sit out, and watch a storm rage as our hearts would.

Perhaps those are the moments when I make up my mind.

Or in the imagined life-- the truer one,

where everything is strange and should have happenned.

Maybe then, in a boat, rowing out into a sea and sky that is all one,

Maybe then, I look into warm eyes and laugh, and I love people I don't know anymore,

and I think there is all time and nothing but it.

Maybe there, I have fallen or stood,

And forsaken the edge.

For if things could change, I would make myself certain.