In January one of Father’s boxes was found
in the cellar, smelling of ancient mildew,
and filled with slings that had been white nylon
and pitons, their heads smashed
and liquid from thousands of hammer blows;
dull-pointed crampons;
an ice-ax, rusted almost through,
with a little roll of duct tape still wound
around the shaft--for emergencies.

With patches of snow still lingering
from a week-ago storm,
I hung the sleeping bag on the clothesline.
Even in that cold air--cold enough to numb the nose--
I recognized the smell of summer tundra.
And later, unrolling his four-season tent,
the petal of an alpine flower
fell out, long since dry.





First published in the Licton Springs Review