The cone of Heaven's Daughter
Mountain dozes in cloud. Hiking
alone and heavily burdened,
I drink the vapors to baptize
myself against common blasphemy.
Yes, this trek may be religious,
reshaping me in the image
in which I wish I'd been created.
Orchids dangle from slick wet trees.
Parrots and macaws comment
on my clumsy, determined stride.
I had hoped to meet Neruda
near the summit, but he left
only the faintest personal traces--
a sheet of A4 paper scrawled
with names, mine among the many
although badly misspelled. The sun
creaks through the mist to offer
a blessing I'm afraid to accept--
its heat at this massive altitude
almost enough to boil the clouds
and bare the bleak and treeless peak.
