Soft footfalls

It's a continent, 
Those groups
Of clouds, at
Rest in a gray
Sky. Hunched
Together as if
To form a map.
Directions to 
Climbing this
Mountain run,
This Everest, 
This widest of
Rivers, forded
And travelled,
These trails,
These byways,
These prairies,
Are purely in 
The imagination 
Of this traveller.

A continent un-
Folded, drawn
And redrawn in
A demarcation 
That has no firm
Boundaries, as 
It floats across
A clear pale sky.
If I were to climb
Or wander the 
Pillowing mounds
Or if I could row
Over the billows 
Would my feet 
Fall softly or find
Their footing lost?