At the Summit

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.