Nature's rhythmic churn
eschews the caves where bear cubs huddle
to outsleep the cold—it grinds.
By spring the undulating rows
of terra cotta tile are clogged. A house
holds weights unwritten in small print.
Let the buyer beware: the day will come
and come again
(a helicopter putters by two thousand feet below—
another corpse, no doubt, to cart for disposal)
when ladders must be yanked from racks
like recalcitrant teeth, braced wobbly
on rusted gutters, and clattered
rattling up, (the ultralight veers to shave
a shear and hungry cliff. There are thousands,
rough-carved and scythe-bearing,
cloaked, merciless. They'll scrape
the pilot with a spatula) rake
in sweating palm, feet dancing
the Saint Vitus. Below, the abyss yawns,
stretches, and calls for a snack.
My legs are palsied, skis pall-bearers, backpack
buffeted by five-year-old projectiles,
clueless and fearless in fiery helmets,
and at glacier's end (moss crackles loose
as slush, skitters down in a shower of pine,
and two hours later I can follow it, brush
straight to the edge, dangle toes like a loon)
there are nothing but lifts.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 3