Cycles

Anyone can walk along the edge.

Staring into the abyss, unaware that their foot is going to be the next one to slip.

Forgetting that life for us is as tenuous as the dandelions that populated last year's lawn.

We can be ripped up by the roots, mowed down where we stand, or live until our hair is gray and wiry and ready to fly away.

Eventually everyone goes away.  There are no ghostly dandilions standing all winter to brighten up the snowy yard.

I don't know exactly what that means, except that perhaps there is a cycle to life as brutal and as secure as the sun that comes up every morning, or the seeds that blow out of the dandelion's hair.

No matter what happens in the end, because there is always an end, right now I need to hang on for dear life and see what happens tomorrow.