Hurry your eloquent passion
Time slicing devisor of measures
Breathing’s an act of deliberate intention
Dancers like you touching ground
Leave no trace evidence for eyes
Resting comes soon with practice
A bench to contemplate grace
Warmed by hours in afternoon sunlight
Twilight arrives with patient treasure
Gathered from days of the world
There are no tourists now
No trekkers following close behind
No hikers underestimating the distance
Overestimating their stamina or agility
Almost a whole year’s income forfeited
The guide paces his village
His friend, porter when they’re on the trails
Leading the curious from around the world
Over steep mountain passes
Counselling on how to safely pass a Yahk caravan
Returning from a trading journey in Tibet
Designing routes to accommodate trekkers’ demands
Limitations or schedules or delays due to altitude sickness,
is anxious too but not so anxious as the guide
Who thought he could endure month after month at home
Being a grandson a son a husband a father a farmer
Stationary
His friend says we will rebuild and we will soon again traverse
High mountain passes through Langtang, Annapurna, and the mighty Manaslu
We will stand at the edge of the world and watch the clouds fill up
the depths of Kali Gandhi Gorge at Khopra Ridge
They will return and we will guide them again, my brother
But the guide is inconsolable
He retreats into himself and does not eat
No one will remember us he tells his friend
The world is afraid of us now
The trekkers are gone forever and we are nothing
In the West, we do remember
Two humble young men who became guardians
To us in an unfamiliar and perilous landscape
Its spectacular natural beauty eluding capture
In photographs, its vistas defying description through mere words
Two who educated who held us when we ran out of breath
Whose patience coaxed us to the survival side of our trepidations and fears
Whose care and kindness effected permanent changes within us
We do remember
With a bond borne of gratitude and love
And upon receipt of our nominal gift the guide sends his quiet message
Namaste. Thank you, mama and papa, for thinking of us
It’s so strange having no work when we are always ready
But you are right maybe
We will all somehow make it through to 2022
One day maybe we will again see you
I read his words through a blur
And hope somehow that distant dream might come true.
My palm warmed the stone
I plucked from the many
As we trod long across unfamiliar awaiting discovery
Before the steep
Before the onset of fear
Before staccato breaths bred control
I paused at a rubble pile
Sacred someone says
Safe passage to those who leave an offering
Balanced here in morning’s light
Ah
I have realized
again
and again
breathing out
breathing in
when I venture out
when I come back in
whether harsh with cold
or soft summer wind
whatever day or dare or game
we find ourselves stumbling in
Nature wins
Nature wins.
I will cultivate my garden here
in the tilted light
to see if anything grows
and maybe, if it seems alright,
I will return again someday–
Plant everything I know.
Bleak was the day
rain clouds beat the sunlight away
Then a beacon out of the grey
subtle Moonbeam calling my name.
I leave small things behind
when places quietly intone
beckon from lonely shadow
some tangible confirmation
I noticed them waiting there.
We both know
You like checked shirts
I collect bells and pencils
Stepping uphill or
Sitting quite still
We
travel well
together.
Standing on the
platform at wing
listening to Leonard
Cohen and Old Crow’s
Crazy Eyes.
The sun rises
through a small hole
Clouds the forever
land sky scape.
my shoes no
longer fit
My blood is full
of wine.
O pilot please just
get us through
this hole of light
on time.
Here
where the spirits
of thousands
uplifted and melancholy
sway eyes closed
imagining encounters
with greatness
gud luk
good night.
