There is a God atop the mountain.

The God atop the mountain

Owes me a favor.

 

I climb day in-

Day out, past the rivers and streams

Past the boulders

Past the old huts, weather torn: cold

 

I walk, then I crawl, then I climb

Past green pastures where tea is harvested

Past old military posts where empty cups fill with snow;

A leaf lands there, daintily posed, tempting me to drink

 

Only I climb for what I am owed. Only my

Feet weep for my bleeding hands

A branch catches the skin; I

Peel it away leaving a trail to follow

 

I move past the last of the trees

Up the sunny steep:

I am owed.

I climb all the way until I pull myself over the precipice

A favor; I am owed

By a God

 

Held in place by swords; arms limp,

Eyes gouged. Light flows like a beacon slowly oozing

Down thin cheeks. The wind whips around

Holding prayers: their answers received far down the mountain

I add my prayer, whistling it to the wind. I am still owed.