Bon Viveurs

Besides the hum of the ski lift the air

going up was quiet, or so I thought.

Then I heard your voice in careless

happiness break the ash-day spell.

I watched your skis swinging ‘neath

the chair and presto you were a girl

sitting on a summer dock grazing

the surface of snow’s more dominant

form. That much, like grace, would

have been sufficient but bon vivants

from Tuesday had thrown mardi gras

beads in the spruce leaving the trees

carnival-flocked, and your laughter

the star on top. From one chair back

I was like a boy at Christmas who’d

gotten everything he’d asked for, so I

stayed still, listening to the warm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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