The Skater

I found the skates behind my boots and loafers in the closet.
I brought them out to the pond to try them back on.
They still fit, even though the leather cracked and creased in dark and dust.
In my head, though, after lacing, was a painting of a skater.
His arms were crossed. His hair was white.
He had a sly grin and black hat on his head.
I laced the single blade skates and did a figure eight.
The grooves cut light marks on the icy pond.
Years ago, I wore a helmet. And carried a stick.
I bent my head down and charged my foes.
I dreamed of battles and frozen pucks in imagined nets.
I pressed and pressed until the ice buckled under the weight.
The cracks widened and the water swam out across the surface cracks.
It was not good to push down so hard.
Years later, I skated in the night.
With a bottle in hand, I laughed and fell and flailed.
The liquid spilled on the slippery ground, and so did I.
My body did revolutions until my spins hit the embankment.
My feet did not press at all. I spun in strange cold circles into mud.
My laughs resounded to the moutaintop windmills in the darkness.
My skates were caked with dirt and I had no balance.
It was not good to press too lightly.
Today, I smile as I skate the same pond.
My skates are tight, and they skim the frozen water, just right.
I do not see defenders in my path to the net, nor do I crawl up sloped
earth away from slippery water.
The ice doesn't break underneath my push and pull.
It does not send me falling and groping to the banks.
I am a skater now with my arms crossed, and a smile on my face,
without a race to run, or a crash to await.
I go about my circle.
I change my direction.
It is good to keep my balance with a gentle push.
The grooved lines are drawn over water.
They freeze and melt in time.
And disappear with the thaw.
And I, I keep my course.
And continue skating,
until I tire, and slowly, take the skates off,
and go back inside to rest.