On Frozen Pond

A winter activity, a refuge
and our own “clubhouse,” albeit outdoors
at the base of the spillway, silent, stilled,
this was our pond, our ice-skating arena.

To the west, at a limestone’s toss, the dam
rose ninety feet high to hold in the lake.
To the east, the ravine’s rising terrain
offered slope for us fledgling mountaineers.

At twelve years of age, wide-eyed, insistent,
we three pioneers of suburbia,
chums via baseball, football, lads looking
eagerly to becoming teens, skated.

O we would try to emulated the pros
who with aplomb would scribe an eight
or do a double axel, yet going
backwards, usually, would sate the ego.

Sometimes, though, ego is subject to greed,
and as young males searching for adventure,
as daredevils almost adolescents,
we would void safety for barrel jumping.

We had no barrels per se--we did have
cardboard boxes to line up on the ice;
obstacles to rush our budding juices,
squares of daring tempting we lads to leap.

One box was easy, as you might suspect.
Perhaps two was as well, I am not sure.
What I do know is that we lined them up
until it was like our own Olympics.

And why not?  Since we were there to perform
as spectators cheered from their vantage points
surrounding the arena, on sandstone,
siding the saplings gnawed bald by hoarfrost.

It was I who would make the first attempt;
thin bones wearing skin modestly muscled.
Blue ice fractures I’d already passed flashed
as winter winds needled my countenance.

I approached the line of boxes, faster
and faster, fearless and sure of my rule
over a challenge on this frozen pond,
in rhythm with the skates shushing, and jumped.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
December 21, 2013