Fridged loneliness of base camp.
Grieving for cool springs, green grass.
Late, the season has already changed.
Hope calls you forward toward a vision.
Legs tire, lungs burn,
Anxiety of seeing the summit
Across the vast expanse of cliffs and crevices,
Having fallen against rocks in the gulley
And ascended to the majesty of the peak…
Climbing is the illusion.
Brought forward on a tide that is not your own,
Confronting the darkness of pure potentiality,
A gentle hand loosens the straps to your crampons,
Stand silent and still,
To be touched by a Love that has no skin.
Yet a single star winks,
Butterflies flutter their delicate kisses on your cheeks,
A voice you have always known whispers… Be.
To appreciate the ordinary things is to return the passionate kiss of the universe,
A Love whose skin is also your own.
Photo: By my youngest son, Matt Iannucci
Turtle Pond Middlebury, CT