Rocky plateaus
With water droplets
Dripping.
Drip…drip…drip.
Clear, tranquil, sub-real,
Frightening!
Calling me,
Calling them,
Calling him,
Calling her
Beckoning…
Calling, ringing, decreeing,
Us.
With the vessels it cries
Out in the forces of
Its eternity,
Against the never-ending sky.
So elegant, so rapacious,
In its splendor,
Has no power,
Over the propensity,
And wonder,
Of the body
Of the mountain.
So worn, torn,
Crumpled, and abused,
In my view.
It triumphs over
The sky.
Still standing,
Never falling,
Even though more dirt,
Slides through the cracks
Of the stone,
Yet, there it still exists
Through the realms
Of time,
Of immortality,
Or reality,
Calling silently,
The listeners,
To climb its side, “
Climb fast
Or slowly
Just get to the edge.
And test the imposing sky,
Roughly, rudely, take the climb.
Come to the edge
And soon you may fly,
If you learn to take
A few sliding of dirt
Just never get caught
A few droppings of height,
Just never get caught
In the depths of the
Cracks.”
I heard the cry
And so I began…
I started slowly,
Timid, it seems,
But I have begun
To take the climb,
In the depth of the
clay.
Here I go,
I have begun the climb…
Copyright 1995 Wendy Torres
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