How does it do it,
the skin of ice—
it holds our weight
we who skate
in circles around
the frozen lake.
Though it groans
and cracks,
it holds us,
this solid ground
made of what
is not always solid.
Is it too much
to hope that we, too,
might sometimes
be able to hold
the weight of others
with such clarity,
such polished grace?
Our skates carve
unreadable cursive
into the surface.
Below us, clouds blossom
in the ice—bouquets
for days such as these
when everything
seems possible,
even improbable strength,
even falling through.