To ski ‘s, like flying down a hill,

white snow, the clouds beneath your feet.

The skis are wings, that guide your flight,

pulled down the hill by gravity.

Control, instead of headlong dash

is how we learn to stretch these wings.

Then swooping as the eagle does,

we swing and push to make a turn.

 

The joy of flight, for earthly things,

is felt when all our sense know,

that we have time to let our minds

fly free above our leaden feet.

A shout, unbidden, leaves my mouth,

that steams with breath on frosty air,

to ring against the rocky face,

of mountains holding up the sky.

 

Oh shout, that fades like melting flakes.

Bear me as well upon the wind.

That I may truly taste the joy,

unfettered by my lack of skill.

Do not complain, the echo calls.

You have at least the heart to know,

that though your feet are bound to earth,

your mind may soar, as eagles rise.

 
 

David Garlick, Whistler, 1988