It looks dark up there — where the water
comes from — the gray drainage tube
up the hill in the woods behind our house.
Rock stacked on rock, a rock mountain.
My brother says a lawn gnome’s up there
and also a tire. He swears.
It’s a cold December day, snow descends,
lands on and burns my reddened ears,
while with clumsy hands, I climb
rocks that gleam from ice:
a burnished blue beating purple to its core,
slick as frozen hell looking to pull me down.