An Old Poem

Dear friends of ours just visited for a ski vacation with their young children, which reminded me of this poem I wrote two years ago.  I like it, and it helps me remember that day.

Carving the Turns

That January day

I skied only to be with you

savoring the last few years of your girlhood.

You hushed me on the lift

when I sang

but laughed when

I teased that I'd ask those

boys in the snack bar

for one of their fries.

I tried my best to keep up with you,

babying my old, runner's knees

and admiring your smooth form as you sailed

down the mountain.

Then

just before the last run of the day

we noticed perfectly shaped 

delicate snowflakes

fall on our mittens 

and wondered how it could be true

that no two are alike.

You told me to use my whole

body when I carved my turns

and headed for Willoughby, a high, steep trail.

Taking your lead

I moved from my head to my hips

and felt it;

the groove

one with the slope

thighs burning

flowing

swish

swish

I was eleven

you thirty-six

and I stopped to wait for you.

I asked, "which way?"

You grinned.

"Down!"

You were eleven

I was thirty-six

the afternoon grew dark

we had Willoughby 

all to ourselves

floating in a liminal space

at the edge of change and possibility

our Kingdom lay before us.

January 08