Sestina

One day, I felt a pull

towards the fantastic, plastic rocks

blue, green, and orange, packed tightly onto the wall

I knotted and I chalked and I climbed.

All this, last Fall:

it was then I tasted what was in hold.

So I climbed

each week, sometimes more, and its hold

on me strengthened. It mattered not to fall

and up I would go, with feet I would push, and with arms I would pull

Each day, my arms pumped tight

as I ascended these simulated rocks.

Each attempt brought new fake rocks

From generous jugs, to slippery slopers, to upturned underclings, I climbed.

With each new ascent, my vibe was tight.

A new route brought a new hold,

New scratches to sustain, new muscles to nearly pull

And, pushing myself, often did I fall.

I put on my harness one day to a round of frustrated shouts meeting each fall.

What is this? Why the excitement, why the crowd? I asked. A competition, said my friend: "it rocks!"

So with, against, and in front of the crowd, I climbed.

I climbed harder than ever, until my fingers could not grip and my arms could not pull

The gym had decided to hold

a tournament, a showcase of might. The wall was packed tight.

Climbing alone can be tight

climbing with friends, a delight. A fall

can frustrate, a hold

annoy. But these rocks,

form a puzzle, a 3D conundrum. One to be climbed

as solution; that is their pull.

Downwards, my feet push as upwards, my hands pull

against the wall, I press tight

And I climbed.

To not fall

from those plastic rocks

allows one a sense of achievement to hold.

Climbing means tight arms and frequent falls. But so too, to have climbed--on rocks or on plastic—is to have pushed, to have grown, to have answered the pull to challenge.

And now, the fake rocks are calling, and I must go.