Midnight stumble out of warm tent,
light leaks through
pinpricks in the quilt of sky.
Sudden star streaks directly over the jagged
high crotch of Asgaard Pass.
"Come up," she says.
Dawn breaks, we toil and climb
vertical through boulders, scree, snow, gravel,
sage, rare and brief mountain flowers.
We meet others, climbing slowly,
fellow devotees of the Church of High and Up.
The way demands our slow and mindful pace,
our liturgy of worshipping feet.
We imagine we may know her, we may have her,
and the unyielding secrets she possesses.
She brings us to hands and knees, she withdraws oxygen,
she demands everything.
In the end, her impenetrable rock face will never say:
Here is where I came from,
Here is what you are made of.
