Yes, it’s chillyat the mountaintop,but cold and clear,the view sternlyspectacular,
as, roundinga hairpin curve,we survive stupiditythrough the graceof happenstance,
close to that spineof time, bearing witnessto written wordsdespite yearsof painful lassitude.
Look for mentorsand they’ll materialize,peer around corners,mouthing Psstwith pursed lips,
and crook fingerstoward a differentdirection thanwhere I was heading,showing which star
to follow—not thoseso radiantthey obscurewhat’s pointingto my true north:
what I meant to be—a device that listened.
Photo by Federico Di Dio photography on Unsplash