POEM: Himalaya


How the feet slow, up amid the ice flow.
Where air is rare, and each step goes higher,
thinking of those who froze or maybe lost a toe,
yet trudged through the scree, the snow, and the mire.

But who’s ever said it wasn’t worth the trip?
You may well hate to feel yourself suffocate,
but you’ll buy your permit, and get all equipped,
strapping on your pack, taking task with fate.

To see the orange glow on the ridgeline,
like fire dancing on the edge of a knife.

But what monster has such a wicked spine,
begging a fight to the last ounce of life.

Please meet the lovely “abode of snows,”
I think you’ll find her worth the throes.

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