From Scattered Seeds of Thought

On Nursery Slope

On Nursery Slope



The air is crisp,
The mountains sing.
My skis are tight
And waxed for speed.

All about me I hear
The whish and whoosh
Of skiers sweeping by.
I wave at them, observe.

Slow and steady never
Wins a single race,
But broken arms, legs, toes
Keep caution chief in mind.

Another whish, whoosh.
Two more skiers flash by,
Orange streaks of skill.
I pause, watch, and wait.

My legs are trembling,
My sit-me-down’s wet,
But I’ve almost got it.
I’m skiing now . . .plop.

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