Updated: Jan 15, 2022
Written by Ian Smith
Food for thought while reading: I wrote this poem for my brother who is an avid rock climber and lover of the marvelous cliffs of Colorado and the like.
What is man but a series of impressions?
His heart chiseled about by the beauty encompassing him.
Sight of vast crags, palisades, and sierras;
Melody of gentle air and fowl;
Aura of piney expanse.
But to feel…
To perceive, to apperceive.
To caress, to clasp, to clutch.
To have beauty vulnerable within one’s very grasp.
Is not this truly why I ascend?
The comeliness of nature entreating, sculpting my heart?
My nature corresponding to divine its summons?
I am but nothing in its grandeur,
Yet I am allowed to mount such shapeliness?
Oh, what is feeling but ascent!