By Maria Kouznetsova
The sun shines down; it’s making me see spots.
So trust your skis, they’ll take you through the snow;
This silent snow absorbs resounding thoughts
Which echo lonesome dog cries far below.
‘Tween scattered trees we blaze our two-lined path
And up hills, down hills, ‘round hills we do glide;
To choose which way to turn, we use some math.
Our fearless leader guides us as we slide.
Our faces frozen, trying not to stop,
We come to the hardest part: the biggest hill.
The climb is tough, but when I reach the top,
I am as free as wind, which blows at will.
As I look out o’er fields as white as day
My heart proclaims, “Dear world, remain this way.”