Mountain Child

My climb is a climb up a mountain
and a constant flight
from being a martyr to my father.

The mortality of my daughter
also makes the climb.
She is careful to learn all the ropes.

She accepts my comfort when she falls
and sometimes stalls,
but is surprisingly adept, being young.

There are metal handholds in the rock.

My father, who is dead, climbs along,
so as one we climb,
my father, my daughter, and myself.

We are in time extended.

Perhaps, once we reach the summit,
we will be free,
both heart and mind from old bias,

so that then all three
may rest together in peace,
then alone climb down.