Escape on Skis

When I stand poised at the top of a hill As I lean on my poles and catch my breath, I'm not really meaning to steal the thrill That rightfully should be reserved for death When I decide to schuss down through The break in the fence where the hemlock tree Stands sentinel-like, alone. But I do Just that, knowing that only this spree Of speed can carry me up beyond The bleeding, confusing, strife-torn earth Of which I remember being fond Before the Martians seized its girth, Abruptly halting its aimless stroll Toward God-only-knows what goal.

I bear on down toward the hemlock tree And the tears in my eye make it hard to say Just where that break in the fence might be. I arrive at the bottom without delay, Stop in a cloud of fine snow-spray, And wait for my soul to come back to me. (It has to come back, though I must admit I'm afraid of fate, for tempting it; And it does come back, refreshed and new, Though I fear it mightn't for a minute or two.)

I come back to the earth, its blood and con- fusion, War and suffering, crime and collusion, Back to the task of my generation Which we have accepted with veneration: To make a pace of the aimless stroll And direct it toward a godly goal.