This was done two nights before Christmas, twenty years ago, when I could not afford a better gift.
Parachuting into Snow
You have not seen this moon
from a thousand feet,
pulled to your face as a mirror.
The dazzle of stars
slung across cheekbone and canopy.
The distant sleeping village, light-muffled.
For once in a jump, there is
a perfect moment:
sliding on a pane of glass,
the magic of sheer altitude,
as the silver-chiseled mountain slopes
to ridge, bends to a field of snow.
Every cognac breath of fir
burns in a shock of
filaments, nerves that lap at ice
and go numb.
Clumsy fingers trace the outline of
the luminous night,
the noon of sleep and cold.
I would give you this moment:
the parachute cables and harness—
the sharp sliver of life
in suspense of a thousand feet—
the center of pale forms
that spin to a frozen orbit—
the precious second when motion
stops, seized by moonlight.
I would give you this all
but it quickly descends to the treetops.
Hackles of pine needle
rise to black-booted toes.
The white field swivels front
to back in a twisted current of air.
Shadow envelops the landscape
and raw earth flattens to scale.
And for once in a jump
there is no rough landing,
but a deep drift of snow.
To soften the hit and roll
a pocket of pure gold takes on
a human shape, canopy-covered,
and from the surface of powder
comes the slow reaching rise
of arms, helmet, and shoulders. Crawling
out of the deep snow I enter
black forest, armpit deep in cold,
and go to find the other
soldiers, to lock and load my gun,
and to save a memory of this:
to wrap your perfect moment
in paper, before the ice melts,
before the moon slips, before
daylight shatters the mountain
and intrudes on my only gift.
Merry Christmas Dad