Dream Weaver

Seeking solitude, I longed to ski
alone, sorting through life’s latest
lumps, when a stranger, arrayed
in sleek silver spandex, slid
into the chute next to me,
sharing the lift to the summit.

Hooded by a bowl of pewter sky,
the radiance of falling snow shimmered
amidst the mountains like stardust.
“You have to trust your instincts,
when you can’t see what’s ahead.
Good time to challenge the bumps,”

he offered, dazzling me with his smile.
The pine trees, rimed with crystal,
prismed around us as powder covered
his beard, and snowflakes flocked
to the translucence of his face.
He glistened in lucid light,

illuminating our space, a shadow
in reverse.  “Watch this,” he winked,
pointing to the invisible peak.
A band of sunlight slid down the slope,
highlighting everything in its path.
Amazed, I watched the escaped

strip of incandescence slide down
the mountain.  How did you know
that would happen? I begged,
as the flat gray light returned.
I’m a Dream Weaver, he joked,
referring to the name of the trail,
an old man skiing out his dreams.

See those snow angels beneath us.
I made them this morning. Smiling
at the old man’s whimsy, I witnessed,
way below my skis, adult sized snow angels
cast across the trail at crazy angles.
“You have to trust your feet today.”

“Trust your dreams too.” With this
whispered advice, he lifted the bar
pointed his skis up and disappeared
into the snowy mists, returning my world
to the silence from which he’d come.