Cliff Hanger

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Blessed be the Lord my rock, who trains my hands to fight and my fingers to battle. Psalm 144.1

Hand, that inch of ledge you're clawing
by sweaty fingertips: hold on.

The safety ropes, the straps, the loops
at the groin, the belt, the clip,
were such a fuss to fasten for nothing
if you relax your grip: hold on.

The feet on nubs of stone depend
on you; give your friend a chance
to stretch across the rock to find
a niche to grasp, and we'll advance.
You can't hold on a moment more?
Recall, you've felt that way before.

That fingers past have found a path,
crags worn smooth give testimony:
what feels like discovery is destiny.
Your flailing thumb, distraught, stands by;
your skin drawn taut, veins bulging with blood:
we thank you for what you've withstood.
And whether we succeed or fall,
don't think it's for all time;
we're challenged by an upward call:
hold on for the next climb.

Image by Susan Rouse.
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I climbed a rock wall for the first time as chaperone for a seventh grade retreat. In my 60 years, I'd climbed many trees and ladders, so I felt prepared; this effort almost undid me. Even as I struggled, the experience felt like an allegory, one that still comes to mind whenever I get stuck on a crossword puzzle or poem.

Derek Walcott's "Night Fishing" gave me a model to emulate. His poem begins, Line, trawl for each word. Coaxing "Line" along, Walcott writes both about fishing and about writing, without putting himself in the story. I discovered in "Hand" a character for whom I feel great tenderness, along with a supportive community of fingers, feet, and a cloud of witnesses. - WSS