Overnight the snow has hardened to ice,
has crusted the field where yesterday
we lay making the shapes of angels.

I leave cornflakes untouched, search the attic
for old skates whose toes are stuffed
with crinkled headlines from ancient papers,

glide across the backyard
past the derelict barn, amongst trees
that have been stripped of all logical thought,

over the highway and into a whiteout
of slippages and crossed lines,
teepees, tents and medieval fairs.

My cheeks are pocked with frostbite.
I know the chill diplomacy of kings.
I beg for morsels of suckling pig

though something wiry and untamed
has beaten me to the feast,
see: it has devoured both flanks.

Beneath my blades the ground keeps its counsel,
too withdrawn for resolutions, too frozen for burials.
I will skate

until my gut feels a kick of green shoots,
until the melt exposes winter debris
to new air.