The Unattended Field

“Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.” — Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro Close, but close to what, he asks himself to God, or to the end of things? the question looms, an icy wind that stings western sun belies the deathly chill within his bones summit slain, an unread book upon the shelf there is this urge that drives a man, is hard to grasp and harder to expound - the constant forward press that leaves each dried, unquenched, though verdant green surrounds, and yet, to feel within one’s core, the source just out of reach frozen by fear of somehow missing out, his carcass now grows cold, a mind adrift, in search of times of youth and days of old - a man possessed will rid these thoughts no sooner than a leopard sheds his spots No real concern is given to the one who comes behind, who likewise seeks - has he a thought of how his end will be explained? to whom? they either understand or know not what lies just ahead beyond this snowy peak the sadness of the unattended field such sown - the leopard lives and dies alone, but for the joys of spring was this Creator’s plan for us? i don’t think so - seeking, He’s found in places pressed and low, at heights, without, does but exhaustion bring that one might scale the highs, seek out, explore - altitude, we find, a perfect metaphor