Chapped Hands

I have stood with my back against the insulated exterior of an ice house at night

and felt its warmth.

Heard the muted voices of friends within,

The dry cold of dark on my face

and the grand expanse of night sky above and forever.

Every breath becomes part of consciousness
as you trace its icy progress toward your lungs
and observe its ghostly remnants as it escapes and enshrouds.

I have opened the door, welcome

and walked into a convivial air

of warmth and shared purpose.

Stood confidently on a wafer of pressed wood

and known the satisfaction of every need at arm's reach.

With scant reminders of the everyday world.
Where balance is often achieved by throwing the full force of your mass
Wildly in another direction

I have perched with lithe wand of fiberglass cradled on my fingertips

and waited.

Attached by a line to a world that begins

In a circle that is definite and known

then fades through a cylinder in a sparkling flash

to rest in mysterious ether, alive.

Time stops in the hypnotic fluctuation
Between the warm patterns of the past, the close detail of present
And the vagary of the future.

I have felt the distant tug that stirs primal memory

and paused, exhilarated, anxious,

before giving my tug in return

Heard a hungry chorus of encouragement

and for a moment,

held life and death in my chapped hands.