Ice capped peaks haunt me,
their summer blue forms hazy
as my mind eye scrambles down
a bald cap in restless anticipation.
Winter gales meet naked fingers pulling
the fantasy closer breath by breath,
mimicking of harrowing hikes I miss.
Noise around me blends into the distance
as I walk in meditation.
The mountains promise more
than data captured in brick and mortar.
How can they tug at me so strong
that I no longer sense the world around me,
even in a loud and busy parking lot?
They haunt me even in my sleep –
a train running past the dragon spine
of Alps in an European mist;
long roads descend and swell to a coast
in a desperate chase to the edge of daylight.
Or perhaps I am the elusive specter
who left a projection of herself on a peak
before she was ready to descend.
And now she walks its icy ridges,
journeying through perilous gales
and inclement weather.
Now I am phantom that treks
from one elusive peak to the next
believing that this long journey
is worth the breathlessness later.