Lentils 

We walked with the sky in our mouths
wrapped in threads drawn from our own hands
woven not only of wool
but of memory, longing and our connection to each other
we followed the old paths
where stone has listened for centuries
you led us upward
not to conqour
but to arrive

At the summit 
the boulder waited
not cold, not indeifferent
but vast, quiet, and watching
like a mother who knows you better than your words

There is a holiness in what we did 
not the kind you find in your books or temples
but the kind you feel
when 11 people eat lentils on a mountain top
as the wind whips around us
the boulder does not look away