Falling Again

I don’t know how long I’ve been falling.
If I collected all my thoughts and strung them
from my straining fingers to the nearest debris, would that carry me?
Would I fly, not fall, arcing toward a distant planet?
The light-years I’ve survived would not matter,
for what is a galaxy but the spittle of those who tell its story?
What is a solar system but marbles thrown by a child?

I could not tell if those shining orbs held promise even if I could see them.
Is all the universe barren?
Was all life scraped into the smallest pinch and barely spread?
That would make each mistake, each decision,
too monumental a mountain to climb.

Instead, I let myself drift, propelled by my first leap,
knowing only who I am in the moment,
never where I will end.