by Bill Keller
I can’t call this a climb,
this gradual ascent
up the gravel path
into morning sun.
To lay the railroad tracks,
men dug and blasted hills,
hauled the rock somewhere
that needed leveling.
I used to want a fight
with distance and height,
a win over the voice
that says, time to quit,
but now I like a trail
not winding, steep, or thin,
and gauge the slope by trees
in which goldfinches sit.
Once I turn around,
I won’t think of pace
again, but donuts
all the way home, coffee
to dunk them in, and
cinnamon sugar kisses.
