-- January 2021, Kingston, Ontario

 

To write joy in

the dark of this year’s winter

I consider my husband

59 and wearing skates

for the first time in 40 years

The words wobble and sway

quiver and shake apply

and the inevitable comparison

of the tall man to Bambi

new-born, learning to walk

surrounded by well-wishers

in the forest. Market Square

is moving with children

who can’t take any more

of the virtual world, and adults

metered apart in the music

alive under the sky, breathing

deeply even through masks.

The parents of toddlers

go down on their knees

or suffer their backs

into curves, holding children

whose legs paddle the air

their skates merely skimming the ice.

 

My husband’s arms reach

out left and right, a sudden

jerk as one foot lags behind.

His fingers inside their mittens

are spread wide: little boy fingers

disguised in the skin of a man.

He gangles, too, like a teenager

new to his height and the size

of his feet. He shuffles like a bear

just out of hibernation

stiff, lumbering.

With time he starts to bend his knees.

Learning from his hips

he circles the cold glass of winter

under which: cement

around which: wood.

 

A ridiculous pursuit this

really. (And we know that Bambi

loses a mother to hunters,

that there are fires in every forest of the world).

 

But he is beautiful

balancing on blades

pushing forward until the Zamboni

urges us off to the side

and he smiles wide.