One Way For An Answer

No way, just no way,
to question a mountain
unless you climb a rock face
and learn its features.
Your hands and feet hunt for
steps and holds, your eyes watch
for a crumbling ledge, loose bush,
trees with tired roots and decayed.
Mountains weather,
you must be alert for change,
last year’s solid shelf
is this year’s danger. My uncle says
if mountains weren’t the way they are
they wouldn’t exist—he has climbed them all
from a comfortable chair in his study.
I think differently, I think you must
come to grips with the mountain,
scrape your knees, bruise your hands,
admire with wonder trees and flowers,
how they stand up straight on steep slopes,
crawl on your belly, suck in thin air,
risk the fall that awaits you,
roped, shod, gloved, you think with muscles
to reach the top. There in the lonely peace
above clouds, in the roar of the wind,
you ask your questions knowing
you have earned the answer.
Truth comes slow from mountain silence,
you can hear it only after
the trial has proved you—
otherwise there is no way,
no way, no way . . .