a skiing poem by Jim Vaughn

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The landscape, surrounded by whispers of snow, and the occasional glimmer of dancing sunlight, as it kisses the clouds.

Standing before me, beckoning me, like the sirenís call, of the ancient mariner.

Drawing me out, upon the steep pitch, coaxing me ever closer to the abyss of pleasure.

I ascend into the chute, careening like a bowling ball, thrown downward, bouncing, picking up speed by the second.

I stick my pole, deep into the virgin snow, which had yet to be tracked that day.

Feeling it sink, then suddenly take hold, I turn, and before my eyes, is the euphoric rush, of seeing nothing but the trees, entrenched into the rock wall, like centurions poised to repel attack.

The skiís under my feet become weightless, I hang ever so delicately, in the sweet embrace of gravity.

I feel the air rushing around me, the kaleidoscope of colors, that once, was the rock wall, flashes by.

My eyes begin to focus, forever it seems, Iím free of the restraints that bind me to the earth.

Abruptly, my descent stops, jarred back into reality, my legs start pumping again, I slide into the next turn, and start the whole process over again.

Now my son, I know that skiing is for dinosaurs, and old people, as all 13 year old kids would tell you.

I would like for you, to explain to me, what it is that so enthralls you, about strapping on a two by four with rope, and go flailing, with reckless abandon down a hill.