The Bunny Hill by John S. Eustis

The Bunny Hill

Never having skied before, I spent
almost the entire first day of our
three-day vacation on the Bunny Hill,
getting used to the rented skis, learning
how to maneuver and come to a stop.

Carefully, I advanced to the slopes
marked Easy, then Moderate, avoiding
those deadly double diamonds.
That second day was more fun
and less scary than I had expected,
and I began to regret wasting
so much time being overcautious.

It rained on the third day there, so we
were confined to the warm lodge,
doing quiet things and packing up
for the four-hour drive back home.

That ski trip sixty years ago
seems symbolic to me now,
because I’ve come to realize
it wasn’t just that one weekend.
Too many years of my life were spent
safely sticking to the Bunny Hill.

*

John S. Eustis is a retired librarian living in Virginia with his wife, after a long, quiet federal career. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, North Dakota Quarterly, One Art, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, and Tar River Poetry.