Flurries of Winter
I stop somewhere waiting for you
And soon you swoosh by
In a spray of snow. Possibly under control,
Probably not. Bearing straight for the lift line,
Already too far away to hear, “Turn,
Use your edges!” Arms wide, skis parallel,
Unzipped jacket blowing back like
The trailing edges of wings,
How fast that little body hurls down the mountain,
And how beautiful the last-minute swerve.
Draft, Susan Thomsen, 2026
(The first line is the last line of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself.")
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Welcome to Poetry Friday! The roundup is here. “Flurries of Winter” was inspired by a prompt from David Lehman. It’s so fun to see that others have joined me in “stopping somewhere,” too; please see Mr. Linky for the connections.
Thank you so much for visiting. Please drop a link while I heat up the hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. Welcome to all, including newcomers!
Image from Wikimedia Commons. Snow King Mountain Winter Ski Trails. Mclaurin10. Used with a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Chicken Spaghetti 
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