Falling, Fallen

Clare Gibb / V Mag at UVA

Falling, Fallen
You wake with a tremor of fear,
uncertain what might come
or what might slip away
if you stay in bed.
The room feels tighter than before,
the air sharp and unmoving.

Time edges you down hidden paths,
time crawls on all fours—
a slow, deliberate creep.
But then you’re outside,
beneath the willow oak,
where the squirrel chatters, its tail
flickering like a flame.

The earth stains your jeans;
your palms are damp with dew.
The grandfather clock chimes faintly,
a distant warning:
time is slipping past.
Sunlight strikes the emerald grass,
blinding you just enough
to miss the marble figure,
poised and waiting to speak:
“Forget history—look at me.”
Its gaze is cold, unyielding,
and yet you feel her presence,
as if she carved the statue herself.

But you won’t forget her.
You sit there, still as stone,
bound in this moment
as life streams past, left and right.
The squirrel keeps chattering.
Leaves rustle in whispers,
their paths unpredictable.

And then a single leaf lets go—
falls, falling, fallen.