Climb any mountain
or slowly pedal
and your legs
will wind you stroke by stroke
up any
gently sloping hill. . .

Perhaps not fit
to the degree
it’s easy yet to do it. . .

But recall
that what once were separate twines
somehow wove, with work and time,
into the clothes right now you wear
of handsome, sturdy twill.

Find whichever fountain that you must
to slake your thirst for will and fortitude. . .

for that’s so much more important
with each cork-screw twist, vicissitude
than your progression or possession
of any innate gift or practiced skill.

For, once you do,
you’re bound to see
that thing you’re near sure you cannot
you will be sure
you truly can
and will.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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