These mountains
rub my nose into smallness,
fill my belly with clinging
as I crawl on their slopes
seized by fear and shame.
The chairlift was fine;
I do not feel comfortable
high on a string
but could catch the glory there,
see the ways of cedar and snow,
the long quiet conversation.
There was skittering
on my first descents,
an awkwardness of new
like any fawn
ungainly and wondering
but not afraid to fall,
the heavy snow a pillow.
A patient teacher
taught me well
and saw that I could turn
and breathe
and find the echo of dancing.
But then the slope looked steep,
the vision of it in my head
not matching the reality
of toddlers and elders there
but issuing a private menace,
not a clear message
except to my sweating limbs,
my terrified heart,
my arms that flailed to brake
and legs begging to hold back.
And mind lost its grip,
at least the kind of mind
that soothes and moves forward;
the frozen mind blasted fear
into my muscles
falling over and over
into hopelessness.
I took off my skis
in a swelling of sadness
and walked in deep snow,
feeling the false safety.
And where the mountain
seemed softer
I skied a little more,
a poignancy of smallness
while others zipped past.
You meet yourself on mountains
and we are not all heroes;
even when we see
how heroes put themselves aside,
sometimes we crumble.