Walking Near the Edge

On those days when the quick of me is cut off
from the bright blooms my wife planted under our front window,
from the prick of the razor
nicking my chin,
when my house's edges become dull,
I walk to a nearby precipice and sway out,
looking down, knowing my next step
would grant the freedom of nothing
below my feet.

What a blessing, I think.  To spread one's arms
and become unattached.

But then I step back.
There are things we cannot learn in this body
knowable only to those who will never  return.
Once more I look over the edge and pass the test.

And as I approach my house,
I thrill at the pansies --
their bright reds and yellows,
and at my wife kneeling beside them with her garden spade,
her pant legs scuffed with dirt.