End of the road

To join the mainframe of the mountain would be

better than dying, I think, whatever that is—

the number of calculations required

to distribute snowflakes with such precision

must be huge, not to mention

a shadow so massive

in circular counterpoint

to the sun.

To go this way would be to claim

a vast standard,

an analogous code, approximate to

the shifting intimations of the atmosphere,

the sudden rough statements of the storm.

If I did I believe

all these vague shapes

that concern me

would resolve themselves at dawn

into a few pale stones

piled along a trailhead,

or an old shoe someone left behind.

I could leave myself here, just like that—

to dedicate my consciousness

to the equations of altitude,

to speak to the clouds

in their low, slow voices

to convince them.