The frigid air nips at my skin
With icy teeth.
And I shift against the bare seat.

My feet dangle below, swinging absentmindedly.
Back and forth.
Back a n d f o r t h . . .
In metronomic rhythm.

I grip the sides
And take a tentative peek down,
Only to pull back briskly-
Unable to stomach the abyssal,
Pristine expanse below.

And I am ascended gradually,
Impossibly,
In mad awaiting of what lies ahead,
What the bitter wind whispers of,
Sweet promises slipping by.

Trembling fingers tap in tolerant
Impatience
And grey-flecked eyes dart towards the
Horizon ahead,
Towards the blinding white beams
Radiating forth.

How long?


How long must I wait
On this ski lift to
Heaven?