On the shoulder of a ridge I ascend steps so steep knees
brush against chest. What is art, but always beginning in
a world whose mysteries remain one step ahead?

     Then what Road, what Tao should I speak of? How
     could I say that I seek the Tao where none exists?

Place hands against Old Stony Face listening to the beat
of her mineral heart. Then clamber downhill, slowly, over
ground cracked like the symbols on a tortoise’s shell.

 

Then what road: U. Ko, Himalaya Poems "The Poet's Preface.". Los Angeles, 2011.