CLIMBING
I like to go
sometimes
up the quiet mountain.
I climb over rocks
scattered before me
like huge, white stepping stones.
I grapple their smooth, elusive grip.
I scale hungry chasms
stumble past towering trees
woven tightly like thatch.
They disorient me
obscure my vision
entice me with their endless gentle green.
I hasten on
refuse the lure to linger.
On my way
a river confronts me
severs my path.
I stare into it boldly
see my drawn reflection
in its clear, sparkling sheen.
I drink.
Then, defiant, I ford
the angry waters
I reach a snow-covered valley.
It slopes gently
up the rugged cliffs
that stand between me
and the essence
of my obscure desire.
The cold provokes me
the wind warns.
I press on through the deep blinding snow.
Sometimes
I reach the top —
when I can –
sometimes
because the sky calls
because the sun warms my soul
because the light lifts me beyond my trodden shadow.
