There is no explanation why my compass
brought me to this point,
Beneath the stars of Grandfather Mountain;
Slipping into exhaustion under the bitter Blue Ridge sky,
With galaxies whirling by my sleeping bag like God’s fireflies;
Only to find my campfire quenched before sunrise
The branches of laurel bent over my head like a nurse,
My silent guardian having arrived sometime during the night,
That I find myself waking under snow.
