This ski junkie
snow bunny
mountain babe
needs her shot of white.
My ski jacket
is gathering dust.
I dream of
thermals
skis
heavy boots
my hands wrapped around a paper cup with hot cocoa.
I breathe in clouds.
The mountains sleep
their eternal sleep.
Motionless waves,
plateaued giants.
Nothing affects them,
they are as they have always been.
A rumbling,
tumbling
hurricane in my veins
ready for that moment
when my skis
point downhill again.
oui depuis 
Pingback: 1t5s: om tomato soup | oui depuis
This poem is wonderful; I don’t downhill, but I cross country ski and snowshoe, and after NW Colorado’s winter of light snow, I know the yearning you describe. I especially enjoyed your compelling description of mountains — I’ve been surrounded by them all my life and wouldn’t want to live where I couldn’t see them.
The mountains in the Australian Alpine region are some of the oldest ones in the world. And because of that, they aren’t pointy, but flat. They fascinate me. Thanks for reading 🙂
Let it snow and enjoy
Nice!