Ode to Powder

It’s the french press, icy sunrise,
6AM alarm still vibrating my teeth.
It’s epoxy fumes, see gloves and boots
as old gods gossiping by the sink. 

It’s the anticipation, anti-traffic,
first tracks, have to have it.
It’s bending body speaking cursive,
carving vows in powder script.

It’s the draw of speed,
the restraint of monks,
ice shearing my nose red
and powder caching a cotton bed.

It’s tilting over the lip into trees,
the liftee exhaling smoked prophecy,
bootpacking Highlands Bowl
with calves that chant synchronously.

It’s weaponized gravity.
No, it’s tamed gravity,
watch us bomb, rear thigh planted.
This land of enchantment,
we worship velocity, responsibility left
in the lift line. Bent knees pop
to serve, film the drop muffling this earth.

James Ekenstedt is a poet based in Brooklyn, New York. His work appears or is forthcoming in Sea to Sky Review, Folly Journal, Kitchen Table Quarterly, and The Arkansas International. He spends most of his time in motion, running, snowboarding, or dribbling.