It was a poem.
A poem about skiing.
Walking down a pretty roadway
Looking up into the sky
Watching snowflakes that are falling
through lights unto the ground.
I am dreaming of that powder
that once I knew I found
moving lightly through a snow fall
with music all around
For I found a place called heaven
and few around will know
of the beauty you can find
winter flying through the snow
I have found that perfect mountain
where everyone should ski
There dreams of really flying
And now I know I'm free
Skiing high up in the rockies
in a powder that is free
floating over mountain moguls
until we're in our bed.
My mom smiled through her tears.
"I believe that was the first time your father ever really skied powder," she explained. His Uncle Jerry had taken him around and shown him a new world and it was after this trip in the early 80s that our family became truly obsessed with skiing.
As I turn 40 tomorrow and wish he was here to celebrate, my mind is focused on only one thing, the greatest gift my dad ever gave to me: a love of skiing and mountains and snow ... and now an obvious penchant for writing awkwardly emotional ski poetry.
Tomorrow, I am going to feel my skis fly underneath me for the first time in almost 10 months.
And I will know that I am free.
|Powder Day with Dad|
May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,