The Skier

The Skier glides,
Down over the trail.
And to make his mark,
He does not fail.

Down the slope,
To the brow of the hill.
He points his way,
And uses his skill.

And skims the snow,
Like a feather sent.
Marring the drifts,
And leaving a dent.

T'is a fantasy man,
That comes from the top.
In a shimmering grace,
In treading to stop.

In a line of beauty,
Where the air is freer.
A phantom in form,
Is the mountain skier.


E.P. 1908 - 1989

This is my son heading up to the Hellgate area of Little Cottonwood Canyon in Utah, USA. This adventure will begin with skiing, then progress to a giant backflip or two off a cliff, then free-falling will turn into speed-flying, then the shoot will open and he'll land right back about here. They call it base-jumping. Grandma has no poems about base-jumping.