Ski-Racer Sonnet
Sitting astride a frozen mountainside,
eighty others waiting their turn to go,
on the slope blue and red gates a path scribe,
a man says, “racer ready;” so they know.
An hour passed, now it’s my turn to ski,
explode out of the gate with a kick-start,
frozen ruts are what I find greeting me,
muscles press down to absorb impacts hard,
frantic minute, a forward-moving fight,
the scrape of ice, gates flying past my face,
come faster still, can barely stay upright,
you win or fall, there is no second place.
Cross the line, frustration at the results,
tenths of a second leaves you in the cold.
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