Those Who Climb Mountains
Those who climb mountains
live forever
unless they fall.
They only drink icicle drip
and chew thorns.
Their soles are like thin mattresses
that are well used.
They breathe tinted air,
unfiltered.
Over and over again
the hill is calling.
No obstacle is too long.
They are blind
except by instinct.
A raptor circles, catching a thermal.
The climber would mount one
and ride higher
if he could.
A rock falls from its place
and like a seesaw
lifts the hikers.
Always there is imagination.
Always there is a goal.
Sky is no limitation.
Her imagination is married
to her distant goal.
Rules are broken here:
no time for fooling.
They are reaching,
reaching,
Like shoppers wanting stacked goods
on a high shelf.
The eagle flies in the day;
the climbers never stop.
Mountaineers are like people,
colorful as the Swiss.
Their cheeks glow like tomatoes.
Their toenails are steep.
Finally the launch is ready
and all who climb
drift down again.
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