Hartwell's Visit to California

The Young Rock Climber in Red

-- Song of Yosemite



’Twas a misty day and
the boy in red set out from underneath
a giant Sequoia crown.
Around his lean waist a coarse rope grasps,
the end
of which he cannot see, but along which can only –

ascend
high past the Fall
they call ‘Bridal Veil’. As in mid air he sensed
the watery fingers of the mist weaving
through pine tree tops
to reach her,
silently freeing her
of her wind-born vanity.

The Sequoia crowns have turned into dots,
drops of deep
green ink smudged the granite
cliff-edges defined by a stroke of glaciers
long, long gone.
Yet the boy is still in red.

He set out for a view of the shapeless clouds,
drifting through the world
just to rest on
Half Dome’s shoulder, they say,
where a dying sun sets her long burning glance
until it’s too weak.
And many a ghost of youth start weeping
on many a twilit creek.

Only mist ebbs and flows around
the boy in red.
Now he looks too small,
to either rise or fall.