I glide only so well, work too hard,
telemark, get set, go,
it all has to be a race, I disregard,
the full moon light,
the sun went away,
I still play at my pace,
frosted beard whitens my face,
years and years of going down hill,
something I do on skis as well, beyond my fill,
beyond my years, with only so much skill
I see the sweeping curves and shift of weight,
bend my knee and play with the balance or fate,
trace my fingers in the snow, such powder is
rare, like the air up where there is room to spare,
I hope that when I am gone one day,
some how these many tracks will
stay and I can see them from Valhalla,
Heaven for the Norse,
"Warrior" of course, off course,
I will continue to work (myself) away,
then play all day, when the moon lights
the way and stay longer than is right
for the weekend is the weak end of my
strength, to tear myself back to my home,
I alone.
©ClemC122013
Dec 17 full moon @ 10:29 am, skiriffic