Knee-deep in snow, the mountain sits in stillness
while we climb.
Our skis, wading through powder, cut
two tiny paths through the amnesia
of whiteness.
Ahead of us, blank page. The forest’s blotted out.
A house we passed? A cross-hatch,
receding in the distance.
The peak? A mass of blur.
You crane your neck, 'How far still? How much longer?'
'I don't know.' All I know is,
there‘s so much time in rock.
Slowly we inch ahead,
our breaths nestled within us.
Fog drifts in from the valley
smelling like tree bark and like crushed pine cones.
I breathe in. You exhale.
Writer Between Worlds 