Yes, it’s chilly
at the mountaintop,
but cold and clear,
the view sternly
spectacular,
as, rounding
a hairpin curve,
we survive stupidity
through the grace
of happenstance,
close to that spine
of time, bearing witness
to written words
despite years
of painful lassitude.
Look for mentors
and they’ll materialize,
peer around corners,
mouthing Psst
with pursed lips,
and crook fingers
toward a different
direction than
where I was heading,
showing which star
to follow—not those
so radiant
they obscure
what’s pointing
to my true north:
what I meant to be—
a device that listened.
Photo by Federico Di Dio photography on Unsplash
