7:30 this morning, a dog walker on Atwood Avenue
All those silly people singing I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas are getting their wish. Schools are closed a second day this month, and will probably be making up the time in June. We retired folks sat by a fire sipping java and eating stollen, and just hoping the roads will be opened for Christmas Eve and Christmas day for family travel.
This poem reminded me of my childhood ice skating. First I borrowed Dad's hockey skates and stumbled over rippled ponds in our farm fields, then later when I was in sixth grade I got skates of my own. Then I'd haul them to school and walk during recess to the nearby rink to skate. I fell more than I skated, and I was never any good, but I liked gliding on the ice. I dream, sometimes, of skating now.
Superior, Wisconsin 1947
by Susan Kileen, The Wisconsin Poets Calendar 2008
Jill had Mr. Schiller's custom-made ice skates
and tailor-made costume smothered in sequins
with a short, swirling satin skirt we all envied.
The rest of us skated in the clumsy chorus line
dressed in hand-me-down skates and paper hats.
We skated as fast as we could, tripping and falling,
before the spotlight swiveled onto the featured stars.
Bernie, plump and strong, with her partner,
Frank slim and elegant, who stole the show every
year like true Olympians.
Back home in our backyard rink my dad made,
we were the champions. Our only spotlight,
the back porch light and our faithful audience
the neighborhood dogs who ran deliriously around
and around barking and leaping, encouraging us
to try ever more daring leaps and spins.