I can walk this path one hundred nights,
a sewn-lipped traveller, bronzed and bare-
and still the air tastes of mountain heights,
reminding me of a long lost prayer.
On this road of familiar winds,
my feet lead forth, tempered to leather,
and though grazing gusts bite and chagrin,
my pace shan’t be stayed by the weather.
Ripe as winter, time-torn and restitched,
unchanged from rage and war and gall;
I pause upon the rock, bewitched-
a home, I think, is what it’s called.