The red road becomes our ski slope
when its bricks are hidden by ice.
Sledging, we scratch silver sheets and
feel our laughter and rawness splice.
For, now, this is our hinterland.
Our Interior. Where we hope
to hit top speed on each descent.
Deaf to the commotion of life,
we party with no mute button.
Blind to the freeze. The carving knife
wind ensures we don’t unbutton.
Time to regroup on each ascent.
Vital artery - you are loved.
The red road gives us new buddies;
Scarlet-cheeked souls in padded coats.
All intent on the snow contest.
We reach the end first, Tory notes
Carotid road, you are the best!
There would be no slalom studies
without you. With you, we’re reckless.
The red road is our feat, alive.
I feel alive, blithe and rosy;
alert to winter’s ploy to excite
We reach a threshold when Rosie
cries ‘It’s too cold’ with all her might.
Days like this nest in my nexus.
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