My daughter does not hold my hand,

She glows white as fresh-fallen snow.

Her flakes are soft as ice

Crushed in the shuddering floe.

We turn to the mountain

And the summit submerged in cloud.

Is there such a long way to go

Till we reach the top?

And then, as we trail and curl

Over the wind-worried ridge,

Will we see the sun as we start to dip?

 

There is only another horizon, I hear her say:

Its finest traces of gold are the night,

Its coldest shadows deepen the day.

“We will rest when we reach the pagoda;

When we are there we can stop,”

She mutters back to me as she plows

On ahead, head bowed as she divides the gale,

Refusing to relent to the mystery of the way.

 

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A Sherpa’s Tale published in Foliate Oak Literary Journal, December 2011