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I watch the skaters
gliding across the ice:
he grasps her waist
and flings her in the air
a picture-postcard triple twist,
her knee soft as she floats in her landing.
And then she turns, and i see
the smile on her lips
that matches the joy in her eyes
and somehow crosses to me,
for suddenly it's as if I am she,
and I feel the grooves cut in the ice
on the previous circle
as my white-booted foot
traverses the perfect, frozen pond
© 2004 Mary Barnett
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