A couple days ago, @chrisroberts posted a "fourteener" he'd submitted to a poetry contest. It was a great poem and after reading it, I started hearing the "fourteener" rhythm in my head. A fourteener usually contains three quatrains, with 14-syllable lines of iambic heptameter.
Of course, the only way to cure an ear worm like that is to write a poem in iambic heptameter! Plus, I frankly needed a creative break from my series on sustainability and the economic history that brought us to a state of heightened consumerism.
And the topic of this poem was a no-brainer. Here in Colorado, what better topic for a "fourteener" than a 14er?
The trek uphill, it started slow, the trailhead veiled the rise,
while clouds and mist belied the jist of muscles unapprised.
My boots would bear the beating march of mountain footfalls forced.
I munched on carbohydrates, pried the energy they sourced.
And halfway up, the trees began to lose their stature straight.
The junipers and evergreens, engnarled, slowed my gait.
I stopped, absorbing spanning views of valleys' vaunted walls
and listened to the eagles voicing echoed, haunted calls.
A mountain top mirages as a vista's calming height
but oxygen is scarce and vision clouds with heightened spite.
The journey's middle brought me to the top of my content
'cause climbers can't appreciate the apex when they're spent.