To the Young Climbers at Yosemite
On a rest near a granite pool, we discover a scene as alive for a group of young climbers as it was for the climbers and their loves in the 1970s, and for the gods and nymphs in Herrick’s day.
After Robert Herrick, 1591–1674, and his ilk
Collect, from the granite pool, for me,
snowmelt to soothe my climber’s sore;
and celebrate our easy victory
over age, and elevation, more.
We make too much of it, pulling ever close
so you can coo and kiss my handhold: chafed,
until with snowmelt you caress the bruise,
you expose our love, my blood surface.
A temple elixir we make
just by our being, headband and curls
beaded with sweat, condensation
that tastes like nectar instead, pearls.
It gives us this delusion of immortality,
the beauty and strength of youth’s range,
knowing in the end, abandoning to years,
we’ll see ourselves, not the place, changed.
“To the Water Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain” (Robert Herrick, 1591–1674)
