I want to be skis. Narrow and sure, Whispering down your path. Edges sharpened, waxed bright, Cutting fine lines through the powder Gliding through the wind. The Snow crunching beneath me on the mountains where I may roam Powdered trees raining as I pass Broken logs blocking my path Following the pipes made of brass Slipping on ice and falling on my ass The top of the mountain is where I observe all day So much to take in, I don’t know what to say The scenery taking my breath away Making me stare for far too long That right there is where I belong.