This happens to me ever Fall
when the first frosts slick the grass,
I see the mercury plummet
and I hope the cold comes fast.
Though I try not to rush my life,
and enjoy things as I go,
come Fall I'm just a skier
who's stuck waiting for the snow.
I wait for the first plume of breath
when I walk outside at night,
it means the snowmakers are out
coating ground in sheets of white.
They may cover but one real trail,
and the conditions often blow,
but it's like crack to a skier
when they're waiting for the snow.
While others hate the winter
and are warm besides the fire,
I dream of frozen mountaintops
as I put on my snow-tires,
of racing at highway speeds,
with my legs in zen-like flow,
in truth we're much like addicts,
and our white powder is snow.
I love, then hate, the weatherman,
curse the Indian-summers too,
I'm ready for a powder slug
that my skis can juts blast through.
It's such a first-world problem,
so make all the jokes you know,
but it sucks to be a skier
when you're waiting for the snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem