Some thought she had slipped, the plank <br />glazed slick with ice, or maybe <br />already cold beyond care, <br />drowsy and weary, bare feet <br />tempting a creekbed's promise <br />of sleep, though she struggled out, <br />her trail a handprint of stars <br />rising toward a dazzle of white <br />where sun and snow met. They found <br />her homespun dress, underclothes, <br />before they found her, her eyes <br />open as the sky, as cold, <br />as far away. Her father <br />climbed the nearest tree, brought down <br />green sprigs, berries bright as blood, <br />weaved a garland for her brow, <br />and that was how they left her, <br />wearing a crown, unburied, <br />knowing they'd never hunt here <br />or build a cabin where she <br />undressed, left their world as death <br />closed around her like a room <br />and she lay dying on the snow, <br />a bride awaiting her groom.<br /><br />Ron Rash<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ascent/
