every February I
walk on water where
in sun-baked July I
swam naked by moonlight.
wrapped in winter silence
here on this empty sheet
of wind-kissed lake ice
the world is far away.
no signal; no WiFi; no distraction.
only me; my chaotic thoughts
sifting random memories of
human warmth percolating want.
skates sharp slice sliding
me forward faster further…
I slip-stride forward breakneck
shedding the past behind me.
here on the ice in the north-wind
there is only now and frozen breath
pumping legs; pumping heart; pumping hope.
this is freedom reborn in icy renewal.
the problem with the past
is it never stays there on ice.
it is turtle slow and steady always
catching me at the dock as I unlace.
yet who would we be without our past?
demented empty shells of hungry now
with no idea of how we arrived here
in the middle of an empty lake.
I gather my skates, taking in hand
my plodding past; carrying it back with me
into the wood-stove warmth of the cabin.
And toast regret with well-aged scotch on ice.