Words Spun from Sentry

For Sarah, and all the women who walk mountains

Us women trek, dazzled 

by beds of mica, 

and limestone stacked like books,

a collected history of movement gone still. 

We cultivate fire at a lakeside rest stop 

and share the reasons we came here: to confess, disrupt, defy death,

swing from one peak to another in an alpine bowl. 

The delicate pitch of Rasta gives a glimpse

of the Esplanade range, and Sentry

a promise that what is vast is the shelter.   

Lady of the Lakes echoes 

with the steady cries of osprey

flapping into their first season 

(Look at me! I’m flying!)

and the Saxifrage's flower dries but does not dull. 

Sweet Vetch bounces back after a passing footprint.

Anemones keep it light despite 

losing their heads to the wind

and I follow a mountain monk’s voice

up and up, in resting step.

I fill the container for those days ahead with shadow,

and breathe to the bottom of every stem

to imprint this moment,

for what else could possibly be in front of me,

but answers to everything.

It is not for us women to throw spears or take a throne

when we learn to drink up the light,

but instead agree to find love in our knowing

and nod our heads, as though amazed,

when the ordained speak.