Ice Climbers

December and the icicles
steepen on the cliffs.
Some are slick, silver knives,
aimed and precarious,
others carved white and heavy
as winter thoughts.

In the frozen gorge
a few young men are climbing
sculpted spray and spill
resembling stone, stalactites
the size of ships' masts.
Below them at the river's edge
ice caves seem little tombs
while above the dark firs
stand in shadow.

They ply with axes up, up,
one in each gloved hand,
heads helmeted,
booted with spikey crampons,
roped above, below, like spiders
on silken threads. They
deliberate each craggy face,
stretch and scramble,
axes in and up
they heave, hook and hoist,
breath forming small clouds.