I have sat just once

  at the deathside bed of a old explorer

While Life yet lingered within him,

After I had chased away

  the swaddling nurses

    and their comfort pans

  Who sought only to ease his pain

    with their bandaged ministrations.

I sat and held his hand, while he

  simply held on

Then I told him of my day

  amid the rising path and trees

Where the sun would not reach until mid-day

And his stories of which it reminded me

And on this, he rose from the weary frame,

  with more life than we knew he still possessed

To admonish me, lovingly: "That? Hell, that was nothing."

And there he cracked open yet another dusty jar

  of the world unknown to me,

    and the stories it had taught him

Of the path yet steeper, where no trees grew,

  and weather so hard the sun would not be seen

    until springtime.

Of how he stood there with his companions

  beaten, but victorious

    for simply having made it back

"Now - *that* was spectacular. You should see it some day."

And I promised I would

  some day.

...

When I am broken,

And you find me at bedside

  with nothing left to cling to

Except my memories

Remember this man, and share with me your day

  on the windswept heights

That we may remember it together

  and that I

  when I go

May go with you