[image from artofdharma.org]
On the roof of the world,
it is always winter.
The yak's breath steams
beside the hut,
in the early dawn,
when I peek out.
The children's cheeks are rosy with chill;
their brown eyes snap and sparkle
as they emerge from their fur sleeping robes
and creep close to the fire.
Butter tea is warming;
smoke rises into the thin air of the morning.
My husband comes through the flap in the doorway,
bringing in the cold, and the scent of snow.
"Snow leopard came through close by,
last night," he says,
drawing near to the fire and waiting for his tea.
We sip and sup, sharing smiles,
and prayers.
Then the children go to collect firewood,
my husband goes about
his outdoor work,
and I have much to do.
But when my duties are done,
the hut tidy, noon meal warming,
I stand looking out
at the mighty peaks
where the gods make their home.
The sunbird's song pierces the stillness, then stops,
as if silenced, embarrassed
at calling attention to himself.
Then there is only the sound of silence, of the sacred,
the flow of the river, the flapping of the prayer flags,
under the eye of heaven, a moment of perfect peace.
My gaze is on the mountains: no thoughts, no thoughts,
my one prayer, to pierce the pearl of wisdom
in my lifetime, one step, one breath at a time,
by my good works,
my good heart,
to wash my soul clean.
[image from google]
At Real Toads Hannah set us the most interesting challenge for Transforming Fridays :
to write about places that are cold and icy on the planet. She said if we chose to do so as a human, we must do it as a person who inhabits that landscape. The Himalayas always call to me.
