One can never consent to creep when one
feels an impulse to soar.
Even the most pedestrian moments:
a broken fingernail, the time taken
to unsnag one's sweater from a thorn,
keep the Icarus in us all earthbound.
Another day, well spent, spent.
Time is offered up on its own altar.
Those at the bottom, blinded by sun
and dizzying effects of the mountain's height,
go home where they lock the door to pray.
Fervent, unfettered prayer:
For wisdom, fast feet:
and that flung wish, home.