[a short story in ten short poems
I reread God’s Mountain, by O. Snow, and thought about Midori.]
The summit rises / a snowy, distant haven; / time will not stop me.
The snow in my path / is no longer fluffy white / but brown and slushy.
A steep icy trail / ascends before my unshod feet / and freezes my steps.
Beside the pathway / bodies sit, tired and worn, / baggage strewn around.
Lamenting, wailing / fill my silent trek, echoing / the canyon’s answers.
The apex is near; / futility closer still. / Darkness creeps forward.
Daylight breaks the sky, / bouncing shards on ice and snow, / slivering the cold.
At the top I smile / my lips curving in delight. / I have made it here.
Melting snow makes way, / A rutted, muddy road shows / dark, wet puddles and stones.
Starting, slipping, stop. / The journey calls me onward / to the next mountain.