Malahat Summit

Here, above the morning mists
I see nothing gives way
to anguish, or nausea
no matter what is said
by my outmoded mentor
of existentialist persuasion.

There’s nothing heavy enough
at the heart of me
to make me fall through clouds
tumbling down, down, down
into that harsh, predictable reality,
which is not so.

The trick is not to look
up, or down, or round
with eyes heavy as stones,
but to accept the vision
for what it is in this precise
and every other precious moment,
a concatenation of spirit, giving
meaning to everything –
even the vast imponderables
it knows it cannot know
are questions of my own making.

And I am forever, and ever so
despite this nagging notion
that my essence is all mist,
swaddled in this thinking flesh.