Gozo cliffs, January 2019 — photo by author

We stand on the very brink,
the edge,
the cusp, the lip.
Poised to fall or fly.
In the jostle,
who can tell a friendly hand,
from the nudge that tumbles all?
In the clamor,
what voice stands out,
for reason,
vision,
clear direction?
And so we muddle,
huddled,
waiting.

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