Today's ski is dedicated to Brian Johnson, who passed away yesterday.
The kind of day
When the snow is white
And the sky is gray
And even the light
is just another shade
of grayish white,
somewhat overlaid
With haze pulled tight
Over the sun.
The track ahead seems
Old and worn, and
not so white as cream.
Debris blown across the land
Has gathered in the grooves:
Grass and grit and leaves
Grab at my skis. Hooves
of deer where they heaved
From feeding here to there,
Leaving punctured snow behind.
No bird call crosses the air--
No shadow of any kind.
Today is flat white
Sky and land one shade, not two.
There is little of delight,
And yet, a ski today will do.
The kind of day
When the snow is white
And the sky is gray
And even the light
is just another shade
of grayish white,
somewhat overlaid
With haze pulled tight
Over the sun.
The track ahead seems
Old and worn, and
not so white as cream.
Debris blown across the land
Has gathered in the grooves:
Grass and grit and leaves
Grab at my skis. Hooves
of deer where they heaved
From feeding here to there,
Leaving punctured snow behind.
No bird call crosses the air--
No shadow of any kind.
Today is flat white
Sky and land one shade, not two.
There is little of delight,
And yet, a ski today will do.
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