You will remember how two weeks ago
I skied into you, right through the tall center
of your many red stems. How I fell.
I was transfixed by you at the base of the hill.
I forgot everything but willow. But
today I remember to train my eye
to corduroy snow, to follow its parallel
grooves through the gulley.
See how I slide up the other side with no effort.
It is not that I did not notice you,
your whispers, your slight bend
in the almost breeze, your tips waving
like sirens, your long slendernesses,
how easily you rise from snow toward sky.
I noticed and then curled my body into the curve,
looked ahead, became drift, became wind, became
current and passed you, slipping myself into
the next moment which is always, always passing.