High Up

Climbing up through pine and spruce,
Wild rose and berries close around:
I understand by now the lack of use
This high and narrow trail has found,

Discouraged by the fright,
The vines, the sweat,
The mountains’ slight
And distant silhouette,

That enervating dance
Beneath the misted towers
Where planets tango with the plants
And flowers flirt with flowers,

It doesn’t matter now that I’m,
Panting, just about on top,
Almost buried by the climb,
Where I, resurrected, stop:

Rearing up beside me,
The folded hills by now are vast,
Geology’s volcanic spree,
And no longer overcast,

As if the world could summon
Up its rock and snow and glaring light
Only when our tiny sun
Attains the proper painful height.