Edge

My heart has an unnecessary roughness about it

as much as the cliff-lined shores of Morden

or Baxter's Harbour;

as much as the split of Scot's Bay's Cape

made by a mythical strike.

I'm impotent until autumn's extravagance

and technicolor hastens with

winter's icy breath and

its fallen snow to follow

all to soften my harshness...

to quiet my sharpness...

to raise up my baseline

and make my turbulence

scatter...

while the High Island of 

everlasting joy calls me out of

exhaustion

for I will endure until my completed end

no matter the cost.