Out I came squawling into tender hands
glancing back, and knowing loss before I knew my name.
Already I had slipped.
The cup of sadness, newly nipped, would sustain me as whips do on the flanks of black stallions
Onward I push, climb, expecting a fall
But I am a sucker for the light, skywards ascending
Yet my will to scale forward is weather depending.
Clouds above my head cover my view of the heavens
Wind throws me against what I cling to.
And I hate this, the rock stands solid, I offer no warmth.
So I lobby my soul to the blustering wind,
Sharpen my pick to a piercing point, and begin to ascend.
Borealis no longer berates me, just lovingly coos,
My dear mountain cries in anguish, as my mad struggle ensues.
I see the top clearly, a twin to my dream, a twin to nightmare.
The last hundred feet I think I flew, carried by the wind.
Looking below me,
The mountain is scar.
Looking West, I wondered how I had wandered this far.
My picks in my hands shake at my side,
Neither the Climb nor the Cold, offer any fault.
Higher than ever, frostbite renewed,
I look to the fertile valley, with more reason to brood.
Never again will I be here.
My body totters.
Then glancing behind me, I know the East must be seeked.
As the wind pushes me to the desert, it whispers,
"You have peaked".