Thursday, December 6, 2012

a Poem

The howling wind thrusts
Through his garments into his flesh
Like steel shards of shrapnel
Piercing to the depths of his soul

Reflecting the brillance
Of the sun into his eyes
Like a polished mirror
The glacial ridge is unforgiving
White-out Blind is he

Confusion steals his mittens
Fingers clenched in a grotesque claw
Like carved from stone

He has no sensation in his feet
Toes frozen solid in his boots
With every ounce of his will
He commands his ice-legs
One step closer to her summit

She spurns her lover
Like a wild bronco
He is thrown from the mountain that he loves

The Mountaineer is dead.
Ice and snow is his coffin.
The mountain is his tombstone.

His eternal joy is the towering
Snow-capped peaks in
Our Father's kingdom

I see my Angel Guardian atop the summit now


Photo Credit
Copyright © Petr Kratochvil
Used with permission
Public Domain Pictures dot net

Copyright © ralph Marie de largo
1st Sunday of Advent
2 December 2012

146 Words

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