Skate blades on ice,
a night full of snowflakes.
We're lost for a moment in
the piles of white winter,
in the flurry of movement from the vast
sky above us.
I feel small.
It's a good small.
Through the midnight river
and through the
sea of cars we make our
way through the coldness and
we find our way
to a small,
near abandoned rink.
It feels like
the brim
of a steaming mug.
The folds of its
arms
circling themselves around
its few
appreciators--
making me feel
somehow
home.
Homes can be found and made and broken from
almost anything, or anyone.
(Like nests or cuckoo clocks)
A pocket full of stars, a fraying red sweater, a tall
boy, a chipping coffee mug, a dog.
Home is anywhere you nestle into.
Like lost birds
in the wake
of winter
swimming against
the pushing nothing.
We always fight
for home.
Skate blades on ice
softly
puncture
the sweetly slick icicles
and scatter numbers
like molecules
across
an almost empty
ice rink.
I ask him,
the tall boy,
when did he ever
learn to
skate
so
beautifully?
He answers through a figure eight
that resembles a
curvy question
mark.
Oh how the cold night
slaps foolish thoughts
into
an almost
lovers heart
like it
slaps
red roses on
innocent
cheeks.
If I ached to reach
for a hand that did not belong to
me
entirely
I would let you know.
So believe me
when I whisper in your ear--
and I hardly ever whisper
for anybody--
I dreamed near
a thousand dreams upon that snow littered
skating rink
and
I watched as my fragile
glass fingers clenched themselves
into lonely fists
until they felt
better
opened to the
snowflakes
falling heavier than
any
snow fall I had ever before felt
for such a young
and red, red heart.
I'll tell you now so you don't
get the wrong idea:
I didn't let my
pale
glove-less
fingers wrap themselves around
any others.
Rather, I quietly
and peacefully marveled at the
endless ways a person can fall
over
and over
less gracefully
and much less captivating than
a snowfall.
One small
moment
of standing there
praying
not to fall,
not to be cradled by an ice bed,
but that's carefully
eroded by the
wanting
of another's intentions
and slowly
you fall over,
like a snowfall--for once--
and collide
with a tall boy
who could care less
about the ice
and more about you.
Or so you dream.
Skate blades on ice,
a pink sweater
and blood red lips.
You're hair clings
to the piling snow
and drips
like the salty
tears
warm against
your red cheeks,
your slippery ice blades,
against
him,
against
the snowfall.
Against everything.
-k.p.b.
{written for: December 30th, 2015, Wednesday, 6:00PM-12:00PM, Park City, Bridger Wilcox, Josh Gubler, Rachel and Kiersten Benson}
