Taking the Climber’s Hand

I was part of a mighty mountain, until a climber came and 

knocked me off my pedestal, loosening me. 

At first I was upset, until I saw his face: 

Tears flooded on my broken body and I felt his hand. 



In my falling, I’d caught the man,  

pinning him with my body. 

Hand stuck, he struggled, pulled, screamed, 

Looking for a way out. 



If only I could be a pillow,  

soft, light, and cushioned.  

He could rest his tired head on me, 

and not his dying soul. 



A stabbing in my side woke me 

the next morning. 

The climber made a chisel, denting, scratching 

But my body wouldn’t budge, we were wedged together.  



I felt worse when it rained. 

Pouring, soaking, gasping, 

Drowning, flowing water still 

couldn’t free him from my grasp.  



He struggles, thoughts of death mutter from his lips, 

he finally breaks free.  

He even left a special gift for me: 

His hand.  



Withered and without life, 

Yet still I’ve held onto it tight.  

I may not have been a comfort to his tired head, 

But I held his hand, as he escaped death.