The Bitter Ranges

The Bitter Ranges

By Alec Whitson

The sun scatters its rays upon the icy mountain

shining, melting, burning

determined to do away with that long, cruel winter.

The long winter, down but not out, strikes back

with wind, with clouds, with rain

in vengeful defiance of that overbearing sun.

I, caught in the middle, kick my feet upwards

through the ice, the rocks, the pain

determined to conquer the high ridges above.

The sun and the winter, all the while, make battle

with blinding lights, falling rocks, howling storms

in not-so-blissful ignorance of my struggle.

The melting footpath beneath gives way, casting me

down, down, down

determined to throw me into the abyss below.

I counter with everything, making battle

with feet, with hands, with bloody fingernails

in fear of dying upon rocks, thorns, and terrors.

I come to a halt, rising upon cold and battered feet 

up, up, up

determined, finally, to summit these bitter ranges. 

I prod forward humbled and alive

with grunts, with swears, with exhausted joy

pushing upwards, on and on, until the end.