DIANE PAYNE

Catatonic Climbing

Crouched
in a catatonic state,
it dawned on me that climbing
wasn't a sane way to conquer my fear of heights.

As the beginner,
I had to carry the rope
crisscrossed carelessly over my back.
I was expected to follow my instructor friends
along narrow crevices and steep ridges.
But my rope would become tangled
and they'd keep walking, never
noticing my predicament, too
eager to begin the ascent,
while I was left alone
mumbling incoherent
phrases, over and
over. "What are
you doing?" my
friend asked.
"Nothing."

Hanging from the rope,
swinging back and forth on
"Bloody Fingers," contributing
large amounts of blood, yet refusing to quit,
my belayer had long lost interest in watching this massacre,
and pleaded with me to come down. All this swaying into the rocks made 
me forget about my recovering knee and my
catatonic fear. I felt strong and knew eventually
I'd make it to the top. And tonight I'd finally
have a story, visible wounds, and my blood was
left on the rocks as evidence that I had
been on my first 5.9. I'd tell my story
using all the climbing jargon. They'd
look at my wounds and hopefully be impressed,
or at least take pity. And if I was truly
lucky, someone else would finally
carry the rope tomorrow.

copyright 2002 DIANE PAYNE

JANE HUTTO

Elsanor

In early spring we listened
to whispering winds circling
the twin gables of our house
at Seminole Landing, and from
Emma's attic watched Rock Creek
snake through crimson clover - -
a shiny beckon toward the west,
fed and sweetened by Magnolia Springs.

One should not minimize a genuine
welcome, yet Elsanor's wind-swept hills,
silos, and Cherokee rose garlands
had so cultivated and customized us
until no imitation, no alternative situation,
or all of nature's available stagery
could wrest us from this ancestral home.

copyright 2002 JANE HUTTO