I skate alone,
lake ice smooth
beneath dull blades.
I spin and trace
slow figure eights
and lift my arms,
open wings.
Anyone watching
from a window
would see a girl
in her old black and red
snowmobile suit,
tripping on her own edges.
clumsy and faltering.
But I see flowers
being tossed
from the stands
to the rink.
I bend to gather them,
smile and wave.
No one has told
me yet it can’t
be done, this
dream, no one,
not even myself.