You lift the iron, feeling the weight of it in your hand. Familiar but distant, dusty memories starting to stir.
The air tears at your lungs, the forest rushing past, feet and arms pumping as the skis carve the snow; muscle remembering, but protesting after all this time.
Your arm describes a wide arc; eyes rushing over the surface, measuring, placing. A bit of wobble in the line, but every new stroke is a little more confident.
Why did you even stop doing this to begin with?
In this game poem, you portray old friends who have come together after a long time. You used to meet to do something. You were good at it, but as time went by, you stopped. Now it is time to shake the dust off your old skills.