Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Up the hill on A chair of gold
Snow that is not to old
Looking up into the sky
Feeling the brisk air go by
To the top of the hill
The chair arrives to be up here takes skill
Silently the boards glide over the snow
I know soon down I will go
Turning right into the wild
I'm no longer a child
On skis I'm free
Free, free to be me
Powder flying as I go
How I wish it would still snow
Racing down to the lodge
Many people and trees I must dodge
To the bottom I must go
How I'll miss the winter snow
The days grow lighter 
They stay brighter