I sat in the high country with my quiet friends, the ones who talk
In print and pens. The inner light of the first snow fell
Around us as we psyched ourselves up for the jump into winter.
"How absurd to still have a body," Mr. Young observed,
"Or to hold in your own hands," noted someone older,
"The nothing for which there's no reward." "O soul,"
I quoted a third, "be changed to little water drops."
These were the sorts of drolleries we muttered as we grunted,
Breath steaming in the thin air, rolling up our snowmen
In defiance of the cliff. Every wise guy learns defiance isn't
Wisdom, but only the wisest carry on defying. Trust me, you must
Trust this to no one. "Spruce trees bury spruce trees," suggested
One of the toppled snowmen. Wish spruce trees buried me.
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