by Michael Plante

There is an old tin shed in the woods
its rustic characteristics give it poise and wonder
distinguishing notables’ hang upon the walls
yesteryears’ crafted tools.
Our forefather’s pride displayed honorably.

Thin saplings line the countryside
moonlit walk through crunching snow
skates tied from laces
hang over my shoulder.
Under a winter moon I skate
alone in the wilderness.

Across the frozen pond
mountains of time sleep undisturbed.
I glide upon dreams of northern stars
etching my existence in Canadian ice.

Throughout this freedom I gain momentum
crossing the shadows of like-minded friends.
Into our own history we skate in silence
our mark is left across the countryside
as the northern stars collect their dues.

There’s a chill that arrives reminding me I’m home.
A rust seeps into my bones.
I’m just an old tin shed in the woods
who has etched his way into Canadian ice.

Image: Canadian Pond Hockey at Its Best by Paul Zizka
Used without permission.