Why don't leaves fall on edge?
Someone asked.
Oh, but they do, sometimes,
Slide between blades of grass
To do a tenuous balancing act.
And are we not all
As tenuous as brittle leaves
Or blades of grass,
Or a grubworm poised under a walking man's shoe
Unheeding the downstroke that spells its doom.
And we, forewarned
But never well armed,
Plod steadily
Into
Dust.
