Michael Mazur


Waiting in line to get on the lift,
The skier makes way to the summit.
Trapped on the lift while flying over trails and trees,
The skier is welcomed by a harsh mountain breeze.
Relieving his anticipation, he gets off.
The cold dry mountain air forces him to cough.
He has to select a trail to fit his needs.
How about some glades, moguls and just strait ease?
The danger of glades is made simple to see.
The skier just missed crashing into a tree.
Re-entering the main trail, the skier fell
In powder so deep that it seems like a well.
With the mogul portion closely approaching,
He just hopes that he does not end up choking.
Going through the patch of moguls burns his thighs,
But doing them fast makes him fantasize,
Imagining that he’s in the Olympics,
Going so fast skiing becomes aerobics.
Finally making it to the finish,
His hopes of gold completely diminish.
But do not worry; he does not even dare to care.
He is going to take the lift back into the air.


Copyright 2002-2006 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2006 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.