bundle up, she’d say,
and don’t stay away past dark.
laces bow-tied, I slung
black leather skates with blades of silver
over my shoulder.
brown Jersey-gloved fingers
and rubber boot bound,
toward the frozen pond I trudged.
Winters were colder, then.
skies the color of oxidized lead,
overhead, matched my exhaled steam,
a vapor that vanished like dragon’s breath
in Viking dreams of silvery swords.
narrow lanes through the snow-crusted ice,
plowed with a ragged edged corn scoop,
revealed the darkness beneath
the glass encrusted pond.
a hard, brittle wind burned my cheeks
as my shiny blades, with their scratchy voices,
flew me over the solid water.
It was the bitter cold a falcon must feel,
hunting in winter winds.
Already, my hands were numb.
one January’s late afternoon, under leaden skies,
no one heard the cracking ice or the pitiful cries
as I plunged through the crystalline cover
into the murky peace below
and my silvery skates, at last,
touched bottom.
