by Emily Garlock
I hit the ground with a scratch,
followed by a smooth glide.
The moonlight guides me.
I memorize the cracks,
Calculate avoidance.
Once on solid surface, I twirl
like the needle of a compass.
To the foot or brain
I am a metal blade;
but the ice shows the magic I’ve created:
art that will disappear behind the next snowfall,
art that exists only for now.
