Toppled

So beautiful is a tree tumbling over a cliff's edge—

it will soon fall to the sea, but it carries on,

salt waiting to lick its roots, lapping at the soil—

let me count the ways they coil and twirl—

capillaries circling the areole like vines,

dust settling on the grass and back as the wind takes it

soon specks on a pane of glass effaced by the wind.