Other men recoil to one edge.
It is on this edge that they weep,
not too outwardly, hoping to hedge a bit.
The end brings their burden and the beginning finds their prayer.
A wife of another time and another manner
sways slowly, a gentle fit.
Gray sweaters and loose-fitting smoking coats
are all that are left here at the narrowest ridge.
Cold, dark winters and soft, sullen springs are cast
in roles to placate all that is right, all that is warm.
The litany of waking remains our sworn enemy - future, present, and past.
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