Distant Cries - Poem

   God grant the youthful lovers time to mount
   the cliffs that rise above them like a flame.
   Although they hold the Drop of no account,
   they turn back far below the peaks we claim.

   I do not mock them just because they crawl
   the foothills planting flags on every peak
   and crying out "Excelsior!" on all
   the minor crags that fall to their technique.

   They've seen our pitons rising overhead
   nailed in a ragged line toward the snow,
   up sheerfaced cliffs they stare toward with dread.
   Who can believe it was so long ago

   we clambered to those mountaintops sublime,
   and fell far further than the rest can climb.

COPYRIGHT 1997 Commonweal Foundation
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group