Breathe

The stark white sense of place
What else is there
Not quite emptiness

The end of innocence
The end of death
What else is there

Many are called and
So few chosen
Who can decide

Fate reaches out
We grasp the hand
That’s closest

The Road Home

The golden clouds
Tease the landscape
With their fond reassurance

How I remember the road to
Nam Tso in the summer –
The crashing stream
Running happily beside us

No Nepali music
Will ever sound
So good –

The road beckons
Longingly with
The summer’s heart.

How does it know the time
Will flow to the end
Like a river?