Waterfall ice climbing with Ronald

Half way up that particular
iced over waterfall in almost winter,
my older friend and i, spiked our boots into cold ice like
spurring a frozen horse in mid air, then, made ropes taut, readied for a temporary rest, half way up, to hover together for a suspended lunch…
wheat bread and salted salmon, as i recall….
the berkshire winds bring pine white birch scent into skin
today again, in november—that fall which knows what
needs to die to make it to the top of frozen waterfall…heels clinching
until we knew, we could continue upwards….
that particular cold of wind and ice in conversation with skin and age.
We ate as one, in silence
glancing at one another occasionally
in that way of exchange between men and earth and ice
which knows what eventually melts off.
We spoke only in that day’s insistency to climb;
later there will be a fire at night, and the comfort of story telling, but
for now, we are climbing the sheer slick face
of ice, and remembering what as yet unmelted water knows;
imagining what we will see when we both
crawl again, like kids, over the top of this waterfall
over and into the crest of the womb we are aiming towards….
and remember why we came out to climb in early winter
what must be the frozen waterfall of all
our names.