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Cold Feet


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As the wind speeds ahead, whistling in his ear, the canal unbroken by his wool hat and
glistening helmet,
As the snow cascades to the ground, skimming on his coat,
As the crowd roars, his heart beats as rapid as a teenager texting,
As the ski’s swish against the powder he begins to fret,
He jumps.

I focus ahead, ignoring the wind’s high pitched singing in my ear.
I trust the snow to keep me alive, hearing the soft tapping against my coat, honesty in the
sound.
I forget the roaring crowd, listening to only the steady rhythm of my heart.
I can feel the skis vibrate on the powder, rattling my confidence.
I jump.

I can see the crinkle in his forehead as he notices the identical whistling to that I hear.
I can see the doubt in his eyes as he muses over his health and trusting the descending

snow melting into the ground before him like a spoonful of cocoa in milk.
I can see him glance at the crowd unsure if he wants to concentrate in silence or be
thunderously encouraged.
I can see his coat zippers jangle as his skis throb underneath him like a deadly head-ache.
Still, he jumps.

Imagine the wind shrieking past you at 40 miles per hour.
Imagine the pecks of snow peacefully plummeting on your many layers of warmth.
Imagine the crowds chanting your name, pressure composing with every syllable.
Imagine the slight quiver of skis, trembling your knees and balance.
Imagine the orange tint of the world through your goggles, suctioning to your forehead.
Imagine the hours put into this one minute.
Imagine the cold trapped outside, yearning in and then finally forcing itself in your coat
and mind irritating your muscles and meditation.
Imagine the jump approaching, eyes widening at the sight, courage shivering.
Would you jump?




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