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...
Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007
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