photo/ willow/ magpie tales
DOWNHILL/ This Way
My trail is empty again.
I take it and dream my way down,
skiing new powder,
going past a few tracks
that cut the hill
on the traverse.
I whisper a caution
now and then
to shadows rushing past me.
I fall and slide against a tree.
The snow goes up my nose
like a line of cocaine.
I sit there and sneeze
little ice balls,
fearing the crack I hear
to be my bones.
But a twig suffers the break.
I rise once more,
lean into the wind,
pretend my increasing speed
is what I wish,
and not the pull of gravity.
I appeal to good fortune;
please, don't send me to oblivion.
@copyright/all rights reserved/2011
Thanks to Tess Kincaid for giving me the opportunity to resurrect a poem I had published in 2008. It's just a bit revised, something I should do more often...and hope for the best!
