Skis

On skis through whitened wood I go.
Around me pines fresh laced with snow.
I hear the sound of shifting ice,
As sharpened skis do o'er it slice.

I love to see the pristine wood.
If you could too, you really should,
To feel the icy mountain breeze
Blow carefully amid the trees.

And see the woodland creatures peek
As under skis the snow does creak.
The air is crystal clean and new,
I've never seen a grander view.