This is not about what happened,
of which I have no right to speak.
It’s of reading of it in the Green Hall
psychology library, where I
checked out books – and of seeing them
in-between, the theater students in gym shoes and
flip-flops, walking up that mountain in May,
tired from the night before.
It’s about knowing first-hand how weather changes
and how big a mountain is – bigger still
when you need to get off. And not knowing,
but yes, knowing even that, how it is to be a
teacher unraveling after rational plans,
jumping up and down in the snow.
I still see at night the two lying talking
in the cave, that world of ice that keeps us warm.