I would, but not today.
That mountain would still be there,
If I softly crept away.
That slope, it seems more treacherous
And, with each year, more steep
And I am growing tired,
My eyesight growing weak.
I cannot see the top,
Now the mists are hanging low
But clouds surround the head of this,
My Kilimanjaro
Frames itself, each morning,
Through the shutter of my eye
It pictures me awake,
But, still, I cannot climb.
© E-L Cartwright 2010