Billows folded into the
crags,
their shadowed hands clawing the peaks.
Cracks and roars spilled from the jagged spine;
shards of light lanced the heavens,
and ice, like splintered stars,
plummeted, striking earth with a shudder.
The wind carved its cry,
a blade against our breath.
We pressed close,
guarding warmth like a trembling ember.
Wrapped in wool and purpose,
the sap’s resin clung to our palms—
a strange, sticky solace
in the storm’s cold chaos.
And then—
laughter, unbidden,
a spark in the gale.
Relief bloomed like a slow flame,
a fragile flicker beneath the tempest.
Until—
a brilliance pierced the gray shroud.
The chasms yawned, endless below,
as life unfurled:
vines crept, leaves shivered,
and the earth, alive,
spun beneath us.
I slipped.
But your gaze,
hazel and steady as the cliffs,
caught me mid-plunge.
No fall came,
only the stutter of my pulse
meeting yours,
your hand a tether in the gale.
Your cheeks, ruddy with the storm’s kiss,
glowed beneath the sky’s unweaving.
We sucked the sharp air,
shivering, alive.
Below, the cry of elk—
ancient, echoing through stone.
And we, trembling,
clung to the earth,
and to each other.