Tom stood upon the ridge on an august 10th
and thought about his baby's frozen hands,
and how although he'd lived, he'd never climb a rope
or touch the face of a lover again.
In the whitewatered wild
he fell into a crevasse and somehow stayed alive.
From the glacier's heart of white,
through a jagged slit of light, cloud shapes of horses he would ride.
When that guy played the ridge like an illegal game,
his knees over the wire.
We all wanted to be him until the moment he slipped
and scattered broken bones amongst the skree.
From the knifelike mangled peak
Tom saw his clothing scattered far beneath-
an unretrievable mess of gear and bones
washing down into the watershed,
turning into something green.
From the glacier's heart of white,
through a jagged slit of light, cloud shapes of horses he would ride.
and thought about his baby's frozen hands,
and how although he'd lived, he'd never climb a rope
or touch the face of a lover again.
In the whitewatered wild
he fell into a crevasse and somehow stayed alive.
From the glacier's heart of white,
through a jagged slit of light, cloud shapes of horses he would ride.
When that guy played the ridge like an illegal game,
his knees over the wire.
We all wanted to be him until the moment he slipped
and scattered broken bones amongst the skree.
From the knifelike mangled peak
Tom saw his clothing scattered far beneath-
an unretrievable mess of gear and bones
washing down into the watershed,
turning into something green.
From the glacier's heart of white,
through a jagged slit of light, cloud shapes of horses he would ride.