on a rare weekday off
we hit the mountain
the same one
where 27 years ago
I learned how to ski
and where I have
skied most of my life
there is the old lodge
which looks and smells
the same as it always has
the only difference is that
the chicken tenders
have gone up five times in price
since I would skip class
and come up here
I know the runs well
I see trees I’ve run into
trees I’ve jumped
trees that have felt the brunt
of ten thousand waxed edges
hidden in the snow
we ride to the back side
this high alpine rite of passage
west ridge and the glades
this moguled proving ground
overlooking the world
I remember when
I first passed through
that orange roped gate
marked with a skull and bones
at thirteen
I felt invincible
now this place
does not have the best views
nor the longest runs
nor the best snow
nor the most exclusive clientele
and may have the most wind
but like our ramshackle town
it is what we have had
and it is where we have grown
and as we age
and the world changes
we can return
to our little mountain
and it can be like it was
at least for a few runs
and some soft turns
in the fresh fallen snow