At the peak, we pose with mobile phones
and pretend to speak with folks back home,
though the wind that scours the summit clean
overwhelms our words with a yeti’s scream;
but it helps to keep the sponsors sweet
and pays for the boots upon our feet.
On the slopes below, we found the wife
of a climber who had lost his life
in a fall almost twenty years ago;
her body preserved perfectly in the snow,
still reaching out, eyes open wide,
unmourned upon the mountainside.
The ground too hard to dig a grave,
no stones to build a cairn, no cave
in which to grant her rest; we said a prayer
and dedicated her spirit to the air.
With reverence, we dragged her body from the ledge
and tipped her gently over the edge.
Mountains stand, taller than any spire;
natural cathedrals that inspire us higher
than sensible souls would dare to climb.
Some say it is a waste of time,
of life, of money, which could be better spent.
Our answer is a monument, not an argument.
