the backyard rink

every scrap of lumber conscripted
every screw’s threads woven
deeply to hold securely
now i’m looking to the weather woman
as i seemingly drain the Don River
to willingly flood my backyard
will insurance cover this / call it
an act of god

fourteen hours
three litres per minute
polar bear dip is 
ready nobody 
wants to join

as centigrade collapses
anxious hopes are buoyed
molecules move outward, slow their pace
linking arms with their neighbours
0° / -3° / -5° / -11°
now we’re cracking with crystallization
inches thicken deeper as the layers 
flood higher

seven sets of skates stacked
by the fire
insulating toes for enduring extremities
signaling sights soon to come

gear sprawls across the hewn hardwood
dibs-calling troops line-up in formation
(by the way, who co-opts 
this cooperation for the rest of the day)
waxed laces, impossibly-tight helmet snaps,
neck-warming buffs, and soon-tossed aside mitts
roll the red carpet out
(it’s really rubber black)

released from youngest to oldest
as the test of bearing weight
boards bow outwards 
belying my inward angst
angled supports nailed 
into the frozen tundra hold
ground against the weighty water

the click-clack of two tentative
blades on the smoothed surface
like a drummer counting the band in
“1! 2! 3! 4!” with her worn sticks
let the groove begin

in no time
concentric circles carved
screams of “you’re it” parade
across the neighbourhood
backyards  sound of the golden boy 
puck bouncing off 12” x 2” cedar
awakening childhood delights of a happy-hearted father

as night begins its early descent
a lone lamp enshrouds 
the rink in stillness
time rushing forward 
as the hose pours forth memories 
the terrain of tracks disappears
underneath a fresh coat
the ice gurgles, groans, 
cracks and creaks holding 
these moments upon 
which we skate

Written by Scott Moore
Illustrated by Landon Wideman

Inspired January 2021