White stone on a black stone

I will die in Blue Ridge, on a frozen day,

a day that has already come and gone.

I will die in Blue Ridge—and what's the use—

maybe on the Sabbath, because nothing works.

.

Make it a Saturday, because on that day, like every other day,

the mountain needs climbing. As much again in its solitude,

before the sun's white thorns find purchase. All I have

ahead of me is the fog of each breath—a whisper

between the nothing—moving forward.

.

This man is dead on two feet. Or was at least. How silly

to grieve a thing as immaterial as standing.

The slick mosses, trees, and stones all had their words

with me in passing. Our conference was a chorus.

I begged their pardon, But they beat me anyway. Beat me

and moved on without turning.

.

There were moments between flurries where I clung,

soundless and glad. I admired their impertinence.

For all of life's wallops and gouging

they endured—bless them.

.

Worn smooth—it takes so much, you see—to weather it all:

the blessings, the whispers, and the chorus, and the nothing...