Ski hill lit up in a magical spell,

Dreamy night setting that suits skiers well,

Silence is broken so gently and slow

By boards that grip sideways and crunch on the snow.

 

Icy cold particles stinging the cheek,

As windburn sets in, it is not for the meek,

Face feeling fresher against the wind’s bite,

Small price to pay to descend in the night.

 

Carving a path through the crisp mountain trail,

Chilling and thrilling, a joy without fail,

Swooping and sweeping around in the glow,

Joyfully living and breathing in snow.

 

That was then. This is now.

Cool breeze arrives on the ski hill next morn,

Rounding out edges to make them look worn,

Moisture seeps into each cranny and nook,

Skiers raise eyebrows with questioning look.

 

Where are the lights and the softly lit snow?

Who let this fog in, and why won’t it go?

Damp and encroaching, the low cloud just sits,

Making me thankful I’m wearing my mitts.

 

One thing is good about groping through mist,

Stunts can be tried that I just can’t resist,

No one can watch me or see as I fall

Ass over tea kettle once and for all.

Oops! Should have specified this poem as rated “R.”

(Sigh!) But “Bum over tea kettle” just doesn’t do it.

It would be too much like hearing a macho man say “whoops-a-daisy.”