BY JANÉE J. BAUGHER
As if by design, after teasing you about your old,
tread-worn shoes, my new hiking boots
miscarry me over trail's edge.
Earlier, we had discussed dependency
and suicide with resoluteness.
All this while lunching beside Comet Falls.
Dangling, a deep ravine beneath me,
thistle and grass under my torso,
I clutch a tree root.
The 100 foot waterfall dove decisively
to merge with the Mohawk River. Perched
on nearby rocks, mountainous mist cooled us.
My white-clenched knuckles, the dubious buttress,
still shocked, I cling to life there in the Cascade forest
with you holding me up.