Glacier Days
"Was it worth it?"
at the end of the day
I ask of me.
Glancing back, casting
random nets,
I conclude
nostalgia ain't what it used to be.
I have climbed this far,
from the gentle gradient base,
child's play;
from adolescent slopes,
verdant and lush;
from boulder passes,
chasms and crevasses.
I felt my own presence;
now this.
To driving mental pitons
into sheer ice;
scrabbling and clinging
on for dear life,
when life itself is
a vertical wall,
I claw, I panic
should I fall.
Cheekbones pressed
hard against the dead of night;
fingers white and rigid,
eyes screwed up tight.
Mothball breath over mint humbug
gums, gasp, condensation puffs.
Holding on and praying
to something
is never enough.
"Was it worth it, then?"
at the end of the day
I don't yet know.
I suppose the answer
will be in whatever
happens next:
when I fall towards the light,
when I let go...
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