After the Children

It’s really much easier now—
all you have to do is stay steady, you said

as we rode on a chairlift made for four
within high alpine air

above basalt mountain peaks
jutting through untouched snow.

You’re right, I said. Falling would be the end           
and what’s the point of tipping? The ride is easy 

after all, it isn’t even cold. There’s clean snow
below and I’ve never breathed such air.

But it takes work to hold still. Like a tree pose.
I leaned forward, wondered

if I could touch those shiny black peaks
pointing at me like arrowheads. 

Then I tipped back, my legs sliding under
the pull bar. Any more, I’d leave our chair—

so easy to slip and drop on unbroken snow crust
formed by the heat of the afternoon sun.