Whispering to each handhold, “I'll be back,” <br />I go up the cliff in the dark. One place <br />I loosen a rock and listen a long time <br />till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush <br />of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind— <br />I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side <br />or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . . <br /> <br /> <br />I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble <br />by luck into a little pocket out of <br />the wind and begin to beat on the stones <br />with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth <br />in silent laughter there in the dark— <br />“Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb! <br />—the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight <br />as your muscles crack and ease on, working <br />right. They are back there, discontent, <br />waiting to be driven forth. I pound <br />on the earth, riding the earth past the stars: <br />“Made it again! Made it again!”<br /><br />William Stafford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-arguing-against-the-contention-that-art-must-come-from-discontent/
