Stilettos

My tip is a heeled woman up on the ball of her feet, teetering an edge as if reaching to see, 

At a cliff's boundary. 

I tight walk, as if almost I can fly, heeled and all, and my dress gathering up in the wind. 

I bank off to the left in my mind, sound and serene adrift is a froth of cloud and mists.  

Greens gather the origins around me, as I see lands under blossom trees.  

     And to the right, is that which is beyond me- a time, distance warp of future and unseen. 

  Grabbing at my hat, before the brazen gusts strip it from me, I come back down from my toes, my heels sliding into these shoes.  

 I slip one off, to feel the rock against my bare feet.  Unearthed, it fell, over the edge, 

As if to say, 

     "This could have been you". 

I thought about it for a while starring far away into the canyon below, where my heel had managed to escape- starring far, away... thinking, 

I must have been flying... 

Tip toes 

  Tracing edges, 

In heels and rock.  

I fell to the wind... 

  But she caught me.  

I shook the second heel loose from my other foot, and kicked it off the cliff, in a pushing motion

  It was an omen, prayer, sacrifice, death, and birth.... 

all I could do to honor it, was kick my heels off the cliff.  

  So I did.  

And I sat for a while, thinking how stupid I had been,  

 

To trace gods sky,  

  In stilettos,  

Upon crumbling adobe and purges of winds.   

I was not taken that day. 

  But something changed.  

I never flew again. 

I never even tried.