Skiing Alone 2

by Janet Smith

The weasel moves in curves,
more remote than an Antarctica,
whiter than a sharp new tooth.

It sees me. Stops. Then
swims into the fingers of a shadow.
No part of me can follow.

No, not quite gone.
Along the rim of my seeing,
a curve of weasel now and then.

Yesterday, I skied
and thought about changing my life.
I looked for weasels,

but even the crows had gone home.
Four jet contrails X'd the sky,
in long straight lines.

Maybe they were dumping toxic waste,
or sending secret messages.
One more thing to not think about.

I had a dream I wore lovely
high-heeled shoes,
but couldn't walk,

which made me think
of the contrails and the parts
of the world I could do without.

I need to be in quiet places
among quiet things.
Somehow, I must carry them with me.

Although a weasel doesn't really
follow me over the snow.
I have no other plan

for saving the world,
or even myself
Whatever wants me, keep waiting.

About the Poet

Janet Smith began college at thirty-five after a string of jobs in Yosemite National Park. She graduated with an MFA in creative nonfiction from the University of Minnesota in 2001. She is a past recipient of a Nevada Arts Board Fellowship in poetry and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Fourth Genre. She is on faculty in the English Department at Lake Tahoe Community College, California. Her first book of poetry, All of a Sudden, is forthcoming from Cherry Grove Press.