Soaring

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.