On the Slopes

I wrote this a long time ago, when I was either eleven or twelve. Well, two years ago. Feels like a long time to me.

In the high mountains

With peaks like whipped cream

I swing from the lift

Skis dangling below me

Floating in another dimension.

Snow is sprinkled on drifts

And on my face

Still falling from the sky

The sky, white as the slopes beneath me.

Snow trickles from the trees

Soft waterfalls of milk

Wiping away the tracks of skis

Without a sound.

I watch the jagged black shapes below me

Zigzag their way down

Puffs of white erupting as they swerve

Ants scrambling across a blank page.