Our pilgrimage began with the usual
Packing of gingham knapsacks and shoving through of sticks,
The usual goodbye glances, the kisses on cheeks
One gives when in a deep denial of the length
Of their looming expedition.

My darknesses compared so badly with yours
It changed my whole mindframe:
Hills were miracles, every bed a manger, holy,
Streams more beautiful for their pollution.
Still, I never could pitch a permanent tent.

The journey brought us mountains.
You gave me roses and worry
Until the air gave its notice and my lungs emptied,
And my fingers freeze-dried with every touch
Of the mornings.

And on the seventh day He forgot
To give us air up there and I came back
To her arms and her sadness, in need of things to hold me there.
I never liked what I had to hear
Because she always told me the truth:

Our trekking may have made us stronger--
We went to Alaska and froze to death.