Val Claret

To ski or not to ski? A foolish question:
when trails are socked in mottled seas of haze
damn arms. There are two paths, one cloaked, one clear:
avoid the sea of troubles, ending them.
If sun should etch the troughs in crisp relief,
illuminate the lumps, pour ink in pools,
then I am King, a monarch of the slope
(perhaps not King, but distant bastard son
of cousins to a long-dead potentate)
but fogged I am a pasta-legged clout
(and not al dente—over-boiled to glue)
a sobbing slob who wobbles every turn
and yearns for El Dorado at the base
where mountains rise above, not gape below.
I'll let my wife regild the family crest,
sprained thumb and all. I'll watch the flakes dissolve
in Leffe, my teeth too worn to grit.
                                                                  O merde,
putain de neige, your wicked work is done,
your Siren's call, though foul, too fair to shun.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 7