a skier’s poem

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the town,
There was no breath of wind and no snow to be found.
The local skiers were sleeping and snoring away,
With hopes of that a winter storm was well on its way.
Their quivers of skis lay next to their beds,
While visions of face shots danced in their heads.
As I lay in my bed, hoping for weather,
I pondered a Christmas with only groomers for pleasure. […]