Ski Writing

          Whiteout

 

 

The corridors of our labyrinth are all

 

downward spirals, white on white.

 

We inscribe the same patterns in light

 

powder or hard blue ice. Under tall

 

pines we glide, weightless & dumb, small

 

almost imaginary beings. No rest at night,

 

we dream this same white dream. Who can fight

 

the snow? who choses where to fall?

 

To repeat oneself forever, up & down,

 

is purgatory, but to love it, to accept

 

this white puzzle of snow & tilted space...

 

In such a maze who can accept or reject?

 

It’s all the same: mountain, plain, country, town.

 

We would be no freer in any other place.