Fully commit your weight to one foot.
Every skate skier knows this. To trust
the ski. To trust the snow. To trust the inner
balancer that will not let us fall.
The commitment allows us to glide,
to fly, to find bright wings inside our weight.
And sometimes we fall.
And though it’s been years since I had to change
into the blue gym shorts and white shirt,
sometimes when I fall I remember all my fallings,
and a sharp voice returns, You can’t do this,
it says. It dredges up decades
of shame, of dropping the ball, missing
the hit, not making the catch, letting down
the team. You’re no good, says the voice
that recalls what it’s like to be the last one
picked in junior high p.e., how I stared
at the floor, at the far away ceiling.
You’re weak, says the voice, but here
amongst the aspen and spruce,
there is no one to let down, but me,
so I untangle the skis and the poles
and rise and breathe and fully commit
my weight to one foot. And glide.
And fly. Become wing. First one foot.
And then the other.