Passages, #38
Three walls of snow
intimidate
us as we clutch
the chairlift bar.
Filling out a line
with fixed syllables
calms my psyche
with poetic chores.
We hop off left
and slither down
to a roped off
out-of-bounds trail.
To rhyme, or not?
To search for a place
to turn and grip
upcoming lines.
Nervous skiers,
intermediates,
wrench skis around
desperate to scrape off
speed. Tails break free
uncontrollable
slides and groin-tweaking
recoveries.
You have to let go–
let the turn happen.
I don’t find the thought;
the thought finds me.
As I scribble,
the words bubble up
and scan themselves.
There is no one
here has been no
one here just prints
of deer, rabbits,
wild turkey flocks.
“Just prints,” indeed!
We visit here
errant skiers.
I wander off
topic, my lines
slide away, my form
gets clogged. I restart
and force the flow.
I offend my muse.
She’s not even “mine.”
We’re stuck real good!
Four-foot snow banks
submerge our skis.
The upslope winds
pile up snow drifts
and erase our tracks.
Step away, put down
the pen, don’t put down
yourself, put down
your thoughts, when she
returns to put down
your doubts. Put down
the dough in a place
warm enough to let it rise,
well covered, so no
critiques deflate
the bubbling mass
and put you down.
A secret thought.
There’s no one here
to rescue us
from something bad.
No ski patrol comes
on this back side.
Our tracks, our clues,
now filling in
with driving snow.
What’s adventure?
Something novel
that can kill you.
My eraser
leaves no traces
of unruly
words, favorite
phrases, dying
thoughts smudged away.
Swish, sift, sigh, sounds
of first turns. Trees
to right filter
wind revealing
one snowboard track
heading through trees
down a summer
mountain bike trail.
I am too serious.
I have ignored my child.
I have refused to play.
My muse crouches
and hides, afraid.
If she angers,
she may avenge
and transform me
into a snowdrift.
She can do it.
She is not for hire.
She must be attended to
as she plays her lyre.
Come, my Lovely One,
come play your tune
as we ski down
Powder Puff to lodge
and warmth and tea
and await your return
in whatever guise
you decide to be.
