Shiny sheet ice mirrors sky, the rapture
caught in an old gent’s eyes; shared, he and I,
our paths fleet passing, a pause to capture
pewter-shadow tree line--and hear the sigh.
He drives a power wheelchair, smiles, rides by;
sheers the bumps and steers the stretches of slick,
tracking freeze-frame footprints – patience, oh my! –
while, I, in fulsome stride so blessed and quick.
The effort warms chill air, makes the breath thick,
mingles joys while I mull his legions trapped
within frailty there where mortar sets brick;
a spirit loosed in snowscape, thermal-wrapped.
Skied cross-country, played ice-hockey, did he?
Strapping, that man must have been, that I see.
© Helga Ross 2003, 2006