The views expressed in the Writer-in-Residence blogs are those held by the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of Open Book: Toronto.
Confession For A Frosted Winter's Day
Submitted by Karen Shenfeld on December 9, 2009 - 11:35am
Confession
No fairy princess, me
I never donned the costume:
circled skirt of velvet,
faux fur frosting crimson collar and cuffs.
Never found my balance—
some lack of nerve or skill;
couldn’t master a simple swizzle,
let alone a crossover or one-foot glide.
Cold hours, I kept to the wings,
holding close to the rink’s
bruised wooden boards—
my impossible fear of falling
through artificial ice.
Truth be told, I stood about
more than skated,
my ankles buckling in protest.
Still—
my cheeks flushed,
fingers and toes tingled at their tips,
as, clutching the rail,
I lifted my face to the veiled sky.
Out of the crowd,
one perfect crystalline flake of snow
dissolving like sugar on my tongue.
