They mark the bodies sometimes
A weathered piece of wood or a ribbon
Wildly out of place in the dense undergrowth.
It’s not the snowfall, although sometimes it is the snow-
There are more deaths when the sky is clean and clear and unobscured.
No buffer then, no protection from the absolute cold,
From the unchained, uncaring horizon.
Yet we walk those paths,
Seek those days.
How to explain the pull of
That danger, that power?
How willingly we pay the cost of
Light on our face and hearts,
Of dizzy joy beneath an unbound sky?
Some things can only be felt rather than explained.