by Gideon Burton
So many metric tons of springtime snow
lay heavy on the Wasatch mountains, dense
with runoff ready to cascade below
as soon as weather breaks the crystals, tense
with holding latticed diamonds smooth and still.
The aching acres wide and white will rush
from warming alpine altitudes to fill
the bouldered rivers with their thinning slush.
But on this April afternoon it waits,
allows a kind of surfing down its hide
from skiers loath to change their winter states,
content to linger on the mountain's side.
In airy snowy powder I may thriveBut even snowslush keeps ski bums alive.
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