She loves the mountain she has to climb.
Each step is a leg up, a joyous cry
from the straining muscles that strengthen her thighs.
Each stone she walks on tells her it’s wise.
Her soles grow tough, her sweat sublime
To have or have not is on the line
On one side’s a wood full of touch-me-nots
where old men sleep with the bride of thoughts.
On the other’s a desert, lightening- bright,
full of instant replays just out of sight.
Snow freckles the sky with its dots and dash.
Below it’s sunny, and armies clash.
The blood in her wrist aches with vision.
The marrow in her bones makes a decision.
She stretches her arms, her thumbs and fingers.
The dead weight of her body rounds and lingers
on a crumbling cliff-hanger till a passionate air
winds its reedy song about the roots of her hair,
And puffs of hot smoke from the guns below
scorch of her buttock —and— up she goes!
Breathless and briery, and buttery thin
her body collapses to pearls and gems.
On this plateau everything moves
to the stately rhythms of a rare perfume.
When she looks back, all she can find
are prints in mud leading her to a mine
with a mouth small as the buzzing of a bee,
telling her the truth about you and me.
A cedar ruffles its pale blue spokes.
The clouds of the sky shine as they molt.