A Poem: The High Places

The High Places

by 

Larry D. Sweazy 

                                   Ansel longs for the high places,

for Half Dome and El Capitan,

for the frantic call of the Clark’s nutcracker.

Treasures of the heart, of the memory,

of standing on the one inch of earth

that feels like home.

He does not dance in San Francisco.

His workingman’s clothes feel like cold

lead against his skin.

Bank statements, hungry mouths, 

hold him at the bay.

He wonders if life would have been better

as a concert pianist.  Would the applause

have tamed his skyward gaze, 

his longing for silence, for his own art?

There is no looking back, 

but in throws of pain, fatigue 

and frustration, he fears he 

will never reach the summit,

be able to pull himself up and capture

the vista one more time. Or is too late?

Has he kept one foot in the river too long?

Ansel longs for the high places.

 The High Places was previously published at The Red River Review.