The Edge

Blue is the color of the corner,

And it’s hard to tell,

Which side of the block is the end

And which is the beginning.

There’s no mortar holding up these dreams,

But I’m laying bricks and can still feel the twinge

In my shoulder

From picking them up

And laying them down over and over.

And something there is about a poem,

Even one that doesn’t rhyme,

I remember a certain line about 

Feeling a ladder rung under one’s foot

In apple picking time.

And I can still feel the sea surge

Picking my feet off the ocean floor,

Riding the waves at Matagorda Beach,

The thrill of the sun and the sand and surf and

Feeling a little out of control,

Hoping the undertow wouldn’t come 

And carry me away too far,

But a strain, like a dark refrain

From a sailor shanty,

Wishing it would, so I could see

If the world really had an edge

And if I could fall off.

What else would there be

For me to do

Besides picking apples

Or laying bricks

Or losing my flip-flops to the breeze

That blew on the beach?

But somehow I knew when I was thirteen, 

The edge of the world would be impossibly blue

With dark green streaks,

And if one sailed over,

There’s be no telling

Which edge was the end

And which the beginning,

But one would see

With perfect clarity that

There would be no mortar 

Upholding anything,

But rather the sweet fluid thoughts

Of the Innocents.

-jenn