The lacy metal steps are ladder-steep
and chillier with each descending tread
that takes us lower into lightless deep
and still: the ice cave once a lava bed.

The wooden ladder, slick with moss and ribbed
by soft erosion, penetrates a bowl
of grass-surrounded water, shadow-webbed
and warm: the hot spring now a swimming hole.

From fog to valley glare and back to mist,
from icy bannisters to liquid heat,
we went a week away and nature kissed
our eyes, and stung our skin, and bit our feet,
and showed to us a slice of the sublime:
the shifting sympathy of place and time.