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.

Or pushed.

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".





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