Cross-Country Skier's Delight Poem by david lessard

I try to turn like
I'm a downhill skier,
but this strategy
does not work -
I fall on my face,
in a heap of snow,
and I look like some kinda jerk.

After awhile I learn it,
the right way to turn,
and after awhile
I get pretty good,
as my legs continue
to churn.

It's called learning
-as -you -go,
with work,
it's O.J. T.,
and your only as good
as you are
no matter what
that may be.

I was content to
be intermediate,
sort of in the middle
of the road,
To shoot for expert
at my age,
would be too
much of a load.

Ah! The serenity of it all,
Racing in the snow,
Doing it for yourself,
No one has to know.

The hills were vigin white,
and the air was sharp and cold,
and I skied to my heart's delight,
and I was good, if truth be told.

My moustache was
laden with ice,
the trees were a
great, green wall,
my arms and legs were blurs,
My God- how I loved it all.

Now my skis are soilitary,
Upright in my shed,
Like me, waiting for the end,
When one of us will be dead.

I'm making plans this winter,
To give it one more shot -
The snow is coming soon,
and I've given it some thought.

I'll go to the hills up yonder,
and I'll ski them one more time-
and I won't care if I fall,
or if this poem don't rhyme.