Might be my best poem... I consider this one of my best poems. Do you get where I was coming from? Bridges by John Nuck Before we met, I felt like the mountain-climber, Greg Mortenson, staggering into the village of Korphe, lost and alone. You opened your arms to me like the trusting villagers who embraced Greg, freely sharing the very best of their butter tea, laden with goat milk, yak butter and kindness, During my convalescence, we spent long, lazy afternoons sharing war stories of our divorces, of wounds that wont heal. One quiet evening we briefly shared the exquisite pleasure of finding the wooden pestle you thought lost years ago and cradling it back where it belonged in a decorative mortar, carelessly purchased during another life, when things seemed to stay where they belonged. So tenderly, for a little time, we groped to tie together the loose strands of our lives. But unlike the bridge that Greg, the humanitarian, built to connect Korphe with the rest of the world, the loosely tied cords of our bridge were not strong enough to hold up against the biting winds of fear, unraveling from distrust every bit as fierce as the gales of the Karakoram that still buffet Gregs bridge of gratitude today. If only that pestle and mortar were more than decorative; we could ground the ingredients that would have helped us trust each other in the same way the villagers trusted, sustaining themselves on butter tea and comforting those who wander in, lost and alone. We thought we had been so wise, learned from our past missteps, to tread as lightly as possible on the creaking boards of our fledgling bridge, so we could stand together, carefully suspended, for a little time, over that lonely chasm.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Sep 2014 23:08:44 +0000
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