The climb to the top of the rock is arduous.
Moss serves as a grip for hands
And ice for feet.
A low branch is like a rope for support,
Until it breaks.
Thistles and blackberries stretch out
To offer help,
But they can be uprooted, or become
The girl who flew across the country
To be with the boy who looks away
Whenever she smiles at him.

From the tip, the view is
The vantage point of a star
Gazing from space in all directions,
Where even the closest discernible landmark
Feels a few thousand miles away,
But you want it so desperately closer

That you jump.

Trust the rain that only falls enough that it sees fit.
Trust the fire that keeps fighting as long as there is fuel.
Trust the wind that whips your eyes,
Drying them and making you cry for rehydration,
For the water that roars all around you,
That splashes over your head
And lets you sink,
Freely and completely.