Occasional poetry No. 2
Hiking the Summit
by Simmons B. Buntin
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Hiking the Summit
Thirteen miles have passed beneath
these
broken boots, though I
have been lost since the first step.
I cannot see
snow-crowned
peaks or a canyon gone crazy
upon itself, but only my breath,
thick
as frost on the evening ridge. As
the trail grows twisted, I lose
level
ground and fall into a rushing spring,
the water drowning my
call
with the taste of panic,
sweetness. I work the current
like a
cutter through ice, reach
the bank to dream of sleep,
and fall upon the
hardened earth.
As the moon slides across the frozen
sky, distant wolves
hurl their calls
against my camp. Waking, I spur
simmering coals and
return
the howls, watching as my fire
grows. When the flames
form a
ladder, a straight line
of smoke opens the night.
I climb in, and the trail is gone.
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About the poet
_______________________________________________________________________
Simmons B. Buntin is the founding editor of
Terrain.org: A Journal
of the Built & Natural Environments. With a master's degree in urban and
regional planning, he is-logically-a web program manager for the University of
Arizona in Tucson, Arizona. He has published in Canadian Bulletin of Medical
History, Sou'wester, Southern Humanities Review, The Manhattan Review, and
elsewhere and is a recipient of the Colorado Artist's Fellowship for Poetry.