After Arguing Against The Contention That Art Must Come From Discontent

Whispering to each handhold, “I'll be back,”

I go up the cliff in the dark. One place

I loosen a rock and listen a long time

till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush

of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind—

I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side

or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . .

I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble

by luck into a little pocket out of

the wind and begin to beat on the stones

with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth

in silent laughter there in the dark—

“Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb!

—the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight

as your muscles crack and ease on, working

right. They are back there, discontent,

waiting to be driven forth. I pound

on the earth, riding the earth past the stars:

“Made it again! Made it again!”