Oh I’m blessed but greedy.

With a slice of warm apple pie

on my plate, I worry

it won’t be apple-y enough.

I watch the sunrise over Annapurna,

over the Fishtail and Machhapuchhare,

and worry they won’t turn pink and gold.

Expectations leave me begging for scraps.

Looming over my left shoulder, and the town,

Machhapuchhare remains rock and ice.

The sun keeps on shining.

The apple pie is gone from my plate.


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