Christine Wessels Poet Bio

On Thin Ice

A rag-a-muffin 
girl glides uneasy 
across the ice, 

That Little sprite
child was not there
to play nice.

Frusterated there's 
no one there pulling
for her win,

Her competition 
as brutal as it's
always been.

Determined if 
anything she'll 
bring her trophy home,

Discouraged as she
feels though she'd
settle for the chrome.

Time to Line up 
toe to toe, one by one 
assume the position,

She cusps the sun from
her eyes scans the crowd
for her family's admission.

They're not here sport
so cowgirl up steadyily 
tip-toeing the line,

With a deep breath
and a silent prayer
in this race she'll be defined.

The crowd was hushed
no sound for miles
could be heard,

Awaiting the crackle
from the gun from
the man with the beard.

Just as quickly 
as it began it 
was over in a flash,

Her balance failed her
no second chances 
face tattooed with a gash.

Then she spied her 
family way back
among the crowd,

With a tear in their
eyes it was clear
they were proud.

That Little sprig
of a child that
I once knew,

Well she went on
to win herself 
that ribbon blue.

She took a silver
here and there, 
A bronze just the one,

Practiced her balance
until she could no
Longer be outdone.

Her goal though every
time she Laced up
those old skates,

To capture that gold 
while spinning her 
favorite figure eights...

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