It’s one of those beautifully frigid winter nights that inspire poets. The skies are clear and the light from the moon illuminates the backyard. Fireplace smoke rises straight into the air and hangs motionless over the suburban outpost. The noise of metal on ice and the clacking of sticks rule here, in this time-honoured tradition.
Rink - Raymond A. Foss
After Minnesota’s lakes
in the winter of ’71,
it was no big deal
but for us it was
it was something we did together
dad, mom, and us some plastic, boards to frame the edge
and a thin film of ice added layer by layer, day by day
brittle pockets of air, deep solid parts and ragged places
where the lawn dipped, sloped draining the hose after each time,
so it wouldn’t fill setting lights to shine on our practice
under the stars and moon
using it after school too; but mostly at night,
watching mom figure skate and dad teaching us hockey
before the lure of skiing changed our winter sport.