Climb

A Buddhist monk in yellow-orange robes
is climbing the snow-covered face
of a moderate peak in the Himalayas
alone.

The day is so clear that the snow
looks like bright light, and he feels that,
if this world were not a transient pit of nothing,
he might be walking on the mountain
face of God.

The slope is not so steep that he needs pick-axes or pulleys.
He leans forward and steps surely as he ascends.
He does not fear death. He does not even wonder
what it might be like to be climbing
the Pyrenees instead.

He knows this peak is sacred. But he does wonder why
hot dog buns come in packs of 8, and hot dogs in packs of 10.
This has bothered him ever since he was young.
Ever since it was the first question that
his parents could not answer.

He was wearing a shirt with brightly colored
Japanese robots fighting across the front
when he walked into his parents' blue bedroom
and asked. They told him, “sometimes, we can't say just how or
why the world is.”

He thought they were wrong. A few years later,
he thought that maybe it was a good idea to
give up meat altogether. He thought,
“maybe I should leave New Jersey altogether,”
“maybe I'll find Peace in the East.”

Now he prays to the Eternal Buddha as he ascends.
Now he turns his copper toned prayer beads between thumb and forefinger
as the snow's crunch beneath his feet
echoes across the gorge.