Poem-A-Day: Day 59

Mountain Climbing

Looking up
from hardwood mountaintops
climbed with crampon bottles
and blurry talc powdered hands,
the summit stands
as a shadowy peak of blinding splendor.

Pure beauty
wrapped in terry cloth clouds
and beautifully scented dripping rain,
that turns to swirling snowflakes
touching my skin
like smooth, groping butter tendrils.

Helped up
by something other than here,
a glamorous glowing lack of gravity
that tears from slumber the one thing
left remembered
in a life spent mountain climbing.