By Morgan Walker
Caught in a snowbank, my skis
have tumbled into the evergreens
beside me, flipped and buried
for winter. Through the padding
of my helmet, I hear the rubbery
scrub of cold plastic against fresh
powder, the fading shouts of thrill
cascading down the slope, the soft,
mechanical whirl of the ski lift above.
I wait for my father’s voice.
When he appears, his beard will be salted
with flecks of snow, his laughing eyes
barely visible behind the tint of his goggles.
He will take off his gloves and reach out
to me with chapped, calloused hands, warm
my cheek with his knuckles as he brushes the ice off my face.
He will restore me, holding both of us steady against the earth’s incline.
He will order my skis to return to my feet.
He will clear the mountain, and the trees will applaud my debut:
Look, my father has lifted me.