Sitting at the summit
at the end of it all,
waiting in a cloud,
a fancy shroud,
to wrap me when I fall.
Standing on the summit,
listening for the call.
The echoes won’t rebound
a silenced sound;
circles in a squall.
Kneeling near the summit,
my journey still feels raw;
they said the air’d be clearer here,
that faith would come to conquer fear,
but every design has flaw.
Tottering on the precipice
with nothing clear above
just golden, metal, man-made cross.
clouds like surrender flags of loss,
fate and fear, a hand-in-glove.
Many have stood here before,
perhaps if there’s a future,
many more, but I’m drinking
on the peak, staggering
on the brink, panicking
in disbelief, illness
a relief, too weak
to grasp the
mystique.
Inspired by a cloudy visit to the Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany.
This piece is in response to d’Verse’s challenge “Edges and Fringes.”
Lisa graciously gave us a choice of activities:
1. Write a poem using the word edge;
2. Write a poem that keeps Millikin’s question above in mind.
3. Write a poem using the word fringe;
4. Write a poem from the fringe, however you define it.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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