LAKE OF THE CLOUDS
50,000 years ago, with a sculptor’s hand
ancient glaciers, carved you
slow and steady, into existence
imperceptible by human standards
but crushing underneath all the while
until, in the cull, in the windswept saddle
you emerged, blue and glistening
You’d think the hardest part of hiking
is finding a good pair of boots
but no
it’s when we have to turn around
because of weather
because our bodies are broken
because we need a lazy Sunday
Now you sit, 5,000 feet above the sea
day after day, your arms crossed
face tilted towards the sky, waiting
as each of us, on our pilgrimage
peer, to see ourselves in your waters
Sure, we comfort each other, we say
the mountain will always be there
of course, you won’t always be here
and neither will we
This is why, whatever it takes
we try again
to come to you
to be dwarfed by you
to remind ourselves we are alive
and if only for this moment, reflected
Lake of the Clouds, one of two tarns or small alpine lakes between Mt. Monroe and Mt. Washington
Summit of Mount Monroe with Mount Washington in the background (sign credits Ami Garcia Kuper)
Summit of Mount Washington (sign credits Ami Garcia Kuper)
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