The Climb

Sophie Cabot Black

I will be done with mountains. Let
The subsequent come, the fallen stone.
Let blazes heal, let erosion. Having marked

Certain places, it becomes easier to rest
On the way back down. What name to leave
This flower (or keep nameless), what small rock

To bring back to where I will write you
Of how it was, getting whatever remained
Up to the place we thought highest. The mountain

Does not move; nothing I can say
Will move it. Beyond are only more mountains
Conspiring as if to break free. And I could not hear

For the noise of breath; each finger uncurled
And one blue flower where trees refuse to live.