My father took my brother and I
skiing: late at night we drove the eight
hundred miles north through pines
taller than a house. At least they
seemed that way to me. I was
seven and slept in the back
seat of the car. The windows had
a latch that popped open, a thorp and then
wind and cold and snow!
The Saab beetling into the dark.
Jim Croce on the radio.
I woke and the sky was green:
borealis lights finning above the
trees. The dome was paper thin
enough to push your hand
Look, my father said. You may
not ever see this again.
In the morning we went up the mountain.
Strapped our skis on, found a
slope to use. Too small to go
alone I rode the lift with my father.
I have never been happier than
watching the earth pare away
complete silence and
cold. He told me how to stand
when we reached the top.
I never wanted to. I wanted
a way for us to continue rising
upward into cloud
snow and calm
a sky that could be green
(don’t look down, he said)