Month of poetry #7: Ultimate floor

You led him away, one hand in glove
peaceable, the other full of insects.
If tonight you don't say bedtime
over mountain-climbing, who will?
Get the final rose from the top
of summer's flowers, never mind
scratches on the way back down.
Coiled rope in my guts twisted
like an experienced boy scout;
tested against history and the wind.
Uneasiness: it's my signature.
Move one step forward: one step into
a wall of nerves and flesh this was.
My ultimate floor was level with death,
his face you might mistake for a demon
or the golden crane, stayed, that needed to fly.

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Including suggestions from:

@ernmalleyscat: this was my ultimate floor (from the log of William Beebe, deep sea explorer)
@spikelynch: hand in glove
@JayJayCee1: the golden crane stayed
@timsterne: who will get the final rose?
@lalscotton: it's my signature move