---

William Stafford - After Arguing Against The Contention That Art Must Come From Discontent
Work rating: Low

Whispering to each handhold, “I`ll be back,” 
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place 
I loosen a rock and listen a long time 
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush 
of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind— 
I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side 
or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . . 


I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble 
by luck into a little pocket out of 
the wind and begin to beat on the stones 
with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth 
in silent laughter there in the dark— 
“Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb! 
—the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight 
as your muscles crack and ease on, working 
right. They are back there, discontent, 
waiting to be driven forth. I pound 
on the earth, riding the earth past the stars: 
“Made it again! Made it again!”
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.