I can see my breath before me,
my moustache is being painted white.
my arms and legs move in unison
and I glide gracefully
over the frozen earth...
Every muscle in my body is moving,
my pulse in the aerobic range...
the only sounds I hear are
those of my skis,
breaking effortlessly through
the virgin snow.
Uphill and down, across long,
flat, expanses of soft powder.
My physical exerttion propels me,
as labor turns into pleasure and
soon,
I am floating,
silently,
without strain,
on a hillside in Vermont.
It's twenty degrees
and the sun is shining...
I have a T-shirt, sweatshirt
and sweatpants on.
I'm warm.
I feel as if I could ski
for a hundred miles,
In my bare skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem