Base Camp

In my head, sometimes I'm the

climber who stays at the base

camp, soporific and satisfied on the

thick air, deep breaths bringing

calm, but wonder and longing as well

as he looks up toward ledges iced with danger

and then the haughty, arrogant summit,

its silence a dare and a promise

of clear vision, of everything shrinking

beneath the one who dares, standing

strong in the wind and the sharp sun,

knowing that there's no more to be done,

this clear ending point, this last step--

the treacherous route that tells only

part of the story, nothing of the euphoric

missteps and saves and leaps over those

crevasses that lurk deep inside,

the peak in the chest, in the gut,

in the mind, that worry that gets

the last word--All of these thoughts in

the idleness of the base camper, longing

to sink his ax and crampons into the

sheer ice face, to know that if it

is to be, it is he who decides, who

takes those steps as far as

nature and fate allow.