Mountain Passes

I weigh each message,

consider fragments and moods,

balance the imperative to

“watch for falling rocks”

against the need to eye

the edges of the winding road.

I see evidence of fallen rocks,

wonder who saw the falling.

The dash flashes eighty degrees,

but signs in July still caution

“Bridge may ice before road.”

I know oracles hedge their bets,

satisfy fate and unearth the proud

with ambiguity.  Sans meteors

and icicles, I dare cross the bridge,

resume the ascent up the steepening

last climb. This final slope

abounded with redundancies—

“Slower traffic keep right,”

“Left lane for passing only.”

Approaching the summit,

I find myself halfway there,

I hug the right, cling to life.