The ice stretches out,

a mirror of frost,

cold and gleaming,

infinite.

It hums beneath me,

a frozen pulse,

alive with whispers

of winter’s breath.

Blades kiss the surface,

sharp and sure,

etching patterns

that disappear as quickly as they’re made.

Each glide is a risk,

a defiance of gravity,

a fleeting moment of flight.

The air bites my cheeks,

crisp and electric,

as I carve through the stillness,

a streak of motion

against the vast white quiet.

Every turn bends time,

spinning seconds into eternity.

I am both fragile and fierce,

a contradiction on edges of steel.

Each stumble reminds me

of the fragility of grace,

of the beauty in falling

and rising again.

The ice knows my story.

It remembers every step,

every slip,

every triumphant leap.

Its surface holds no grudges,

only the fleeting impressions

of my imperfect dance.

Under the vast sky,

I am weightless,

free.

The world beyond the rink fades,

its noise swallowed

by the soft echo of skates.

Here, I am everything and nothing—

a fleeting figure

writing poetry on frozen glass.