A Daughter on the Ice (Poetry)

We watched you learn to skate,
witnessed you take your first
slip-sliding steps testing the ice,
then lean into the motion
as each thrust sent you, grinning,
mastering balance while your blades
sliced their slender trail
across the white.

I remember you in green —
a short, circular skirt flaring
as you spun, the thin
sheen of Lycra sapling-fresh,
arms expressive, graceful
as a tree’s.

Every week we motored through the dark,
the rink your ruling passion,
for lessons with a Russian
who took it seriously
and tried to teach discipline,
tame your abstract tendency.

You bored of practice, practice...
let your dreams evolve
in effortless parabolas,
as though the lift and glide
was close to flying.

I still glimpse your figure, distant
on the ice, and understand
your need to breathe its cold,
metallic tang of freezing agent’s rush,
the stimulus of speed, the spin
and hint of freedom.

When you left, I guess
you had to be selective
and, on checking your room,
your skates were the first thing
I noticed that had gone.