White overshadows white.
It is deep past zero
and hushed.
Through the mist, a spruce
reaches out
with high blue hands,
releasing its own flurry.
When small cornices slump into our path,
the cliff edge is hidden.
We pause.
We pant, unsettled.
At last, we find a ledge
and see the frozen spire
of the falls
rising to the fading light.
The light
won’t touch its aching,
waiting spine.
What a glacieret, blue
and marbled
and glazed
and moving,
still moving.
Time is this lonely white place,
the dusk,
the icy danger,
the edge.
Too late, we bow to the falls.
We follow its memory.
It used to be a torrent
of collapsing light
plummeting,
then splashing up,
reaching,
radiant,
rushing on.
The End
Maultsaid, D. (2023). Winter: Helmcken Falls. Marrow Magazine. #7. https://marrowmagazine.com/two-poems-maultsaid/