Hymn Eight (Unsung)

Mine eyes have studied the little black river slice and cut
canyon walls. I have known depths well-past
bottomless. The pit.
Endless down, below sheer crags that jut
and loom, lie rocks more time-smoothed than most. The last
ice age fit-

froze them where they sit. Leaning over, catching myself again,
I remember the climb—a sudden scrabble panic grab,
loose foot,
fear, scrambling bursts up and out, then the clear spin
of light air and open view, scrapes, scars, and scabs.
Primordial soot

gone from eyes, mountains rise, far horizon. Leave for another
day or night when the Mountain-Maker finally calls.
Wherever
now, wherever when—pit, plain, summit, or other—
I thank You for my place, the aching ups and falls
forever and ever.

Michael P. Carriger