I have not forgotten,

ten and still holding

the blizzard rope you tied

around my waist, winter

of sixty-six. You said,

you are home base,

and stepped out

into weather. Snow

like a house built

around us. Holsteins

holding their milk

in the hungry barn.

You had no choice.

The straight path

you walked every day

a mystery, in this weather.

I have not forgotten,

thirty-three and holding

the blizzard rope.

White-out, you step out.

Your fine hands

climbing weather,

your dark coat, lost

to the great white.

Your footsteps

filling now with

weather. The line

has grown icy.

The weather worsens.

I am home base.

Go where you will.