Blue Mountain On a Windy Day

the rhythm of the snow
crunching under tires,
tells me that i am home.
my eyelids are shut heavy,
my body is pressed firm against the door.

i fell asleep to the whistling of the wind,
dancing through the tires,
streaming through the slush, and muck
that was collecting itself
in the tracts;
dreaming of slabs of snow on hills
where the wind dancing
was made material by the crystals
it collected along the way.

the wind whirring
through the curves of my body,
doing the tango or some other sort
as i glided.

if the wind picks up anymore,
our ride to the top will be thrown,
and we will be left floating

gliding through the sky at the wind's
own rhythm, own plan, own time,

finding our breath at precious angles.

the crystals fly high and swerve,
fighting some invisible enemy,
before dissolving;
providing entertainment
for our quieted stills.

gather gracious at the top,
and we breathe calm
having made it past crevases and shadows,
as the wind pushes and pulls us,
collecting our bodies in its fury,
resisting our attempts to fall smooth
and soothing us with the warm undertones,
of the directions it throws us in.