One Tradition Poem by Matthew Thorburn

Mount Misen, when we made it, was fogged in
up top. Rain would start and stop—
a storm on the way? The promised view

lost to us, the snack stand shuttered, locked.
The wooden lookout was worn
soft and gray on one side. We'd seen no one

hiking up, and no one when we got there.
Not even the semi-wild monkeys
we'd been warned not to feed

or they'd grow fat and lazy like us.
No, a hundred feet below, a monk swept up
outside a shrine. Even the dust

has its right place. But he was old and didn't see us.
Are we even here? Lily bought green tea
in a tall plastic bottle from his self-serve cooler.

He kept sweeping. We kept climbing.
Small stones and coins
atop grave markers were reminders

the living can come and go. It was time
to hurry. Time to look
and leave. I almost forgot to set my stone

on the pile. Then Lily set hers on top.
In one tradition, this might be
the way to heaven. You climb a path that circles

and circles, then disappears
into the fog. You could keep walking
to see if that was right.