SPINS

My feet can write on ice –
The figures etch a grace –
In spite of falls and shaky moves –
My spirals leave a trace.

I don’t write with my hands –
My poetry has feet –
They scribble lines around the rink –
Composed by friction’s heat.

The form is everything –
The posture must be sure –
The balance comes from taking risks –
The power must be pure.

The sheet of white is cold –
A chill burns in the brain –
But frosty turns and ferry glides
Perpetuate – sustain.

(12 November 2008, Provo, Utah)