At the last rock of the last ledge of the last climb,

retreat blocked, he went to the edge

to look over his days and ways.

The earth lay below in colors. He watched it

with desire, but it was spread out far

far below, and was unobtainable.

At his foot was a green thing—a leaf,

slick and single, with one red berry,

had prized open a crevice in granite.

Over timberline are no trees, no bushes,

granite only, and a tremendous wind;

but the slick soft texture of the lead

and the red slick shape of the berry

had sprung from some seed, some kind of seed,

so he let them be there for him.

Though the wind made the sound of wolves, and sun

had not warmed the granite, he gathered

that he was to take heart.