There’s rhythm

to moving forward

a subtle weightlessness

drifting between breaths

where the world blurs.

Pretend

that ice is not fragile

that glimmering sweep

of your passage

in a fleeting line.

The trick lies in

momentum

even as it hums

its own silent tune

No missteps here.

But when you falter

art is in recovery

a graceful pretence

and sharpness of edge

its own grace.

When you feel

your glide falter

and sink into stillness

keep moving forward

you ghost of light.