At the Summit

David Wagoner

One more half-step, another half
   And a half, and as far as you can see
       Or tell, blinking around you, nothing
Is higher than you or your head
   But a few clouds. You're not exactly standing,
       But you're on the top of a mountain,
On bare, wind-etched rock
   Nearly as smooth as ice. You're so short
       Of breath, you crouch over your lungs
As if to give them shelter. You'd cheer
   If you had almost enough breath
       To blow out a candle or could light
A candle if you had one. You'd try to sing
   If you could think of a song or dance
       If you could move. Or hug somebody
If you had another body or yourself
   At least to keep warm. You'd say something
       Memorable if you could
Remember anything, and you'd laugh
    If only the corners of your mouth would turn
       Up and come open and your belly
Give the old, old heave-ho
    To something besides ice water as old
       And as cold as when it ran the other way
Down your throat. You want to believe
    In joy. It would be too terrible
       If you could only think of it
In the meantime. The rocks at your feet
    Seem as commonplace as your boots.
       They're not thinking of themselves
As above it all. The heart of the earth
    Has thrust them onto this summit
       Without discussing the matter in advance.
And before long, they'll be washed or blown or shaken
    Away, brushed off and down the rubble-strewn slopes
       To be cracked and shattered,
To take their turns as bits of a mob scene,
    And though you could always leave something behind
Some weatherproof memento like your ice-ax
   Or your bones or an empty bottle, it seems
       A slovenly gesture. All the way
From the foot of the mountain to this pinnacle,
   You've had less and less room to maneuver,
       To choose or change, but here at last your mind
Has been changed for you. Like a man at the North Pole
   Who can only go south, you can only go
       Back down, slipping away.