[Venus007]

Turned away from the summit, I camp among your foothills and
recall the days when I took for granted I would always be able to
walk the shining path, through the clouds to your secret garden.

I wait for the storms to clear and the way to open.
I watch others born down from the heights unable to even rest in the shadow of the mountain.
I wonder if they found the precious things I left there.

The sun flashes off the peak and I am Ulysses lashed to my tent pole listening to the song of the sirens.
They beckon me to climb, to force my way up. To face the icy winter storms and
snowy billowing avalanche; to be hurtled down the mountain,
broken, and cast out from even the comfort of the foothills because the mountain does not will it.

There is beauty here, on these lower rises, on these fertile hills.
I watch the intrepid adventurers parade by; packs earnestly strapped on, scoffing at this small tent on the mountainside, confusing patience with weakness.
I have seen their bones pile up over the years. All that is left of them is the plastic they leave behind and the damage from their fires.

They are lured by the peak, like a junkie to a needle, like a moth to a candle, like I am though I endure.