Bright Harvest by Grace Noll Crowell - HTML preview

Ski Heights

H

ERE where an echo is as thin

As clear-blown glass, a cry rings out;

Here where the skiers late have been,

There is nothing left but an echoing shout

As the last man follows a piled white trail,

Skimming the surface as light as foam,

Swaying and tilting—an eager sail,

Set for some far wild winter home.

Bereft, the heights take on new light:

The cold blue quivers as ardent red

Flows where the sun, before the night,

Banks its coals for the day ahead.

And the lonely heights now wait and dream

Of laughter and shouting, of youth a-thrill—

Of morning when white frosts glitter and gleam,

And the skiers once more take the hill.

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