Through the switchbacks I look for the white blazes.
There are blues and yellows, too, but that is not my way--—
Not on this day.

Dead presidents, heroes, take their place,
Green falls away from rugged shoulders,
Yet I am higher and higher,
Parallel to the tip of trees and lonely outcrops--—
I am wilder here.

I'll take my calluses,
Lump clarity together on the path of ascension,
While to the east, all is dying,
Grown old as earth folds up into sky--—
The latter,
A tale of comet blue,
Gone electric, easy.

12/11/2007

Posted on 12/11/2007
Copyright © 2025 Jim Moore