my God meets me here
beneath the gray-clouded sky;
the shisk, shisk of my poles and
soft slap of my skis the only sound

between two oaks the clouds part
before the bright crescent moon
I pause and my breath streams out
in a misty cloud, rising

I sense a presence grander than
these trees I ski between –
their dark shapes a soft wall
to my white corridor

He appears unchanging in the stars
as the clouds drift silently on
and despite this apparent silence
all of creation continues to speak