The Widow

They yank on their skates,

criss-cross the laces and

tug on my hand with stubby fingers.

The ice is thick and crusted with

white chips

Pondscum and cattails are hidden

under the marbled crust

Like the ice that coated the lake

when he cracked it and

broke through.

No fishhooks today, no pike or perch,

only mittens and hot chocolate

They glide and twirl and

slip-slide on white but

I only see him,

plunging

beneath the surface.

They didn't hear the crack or the splash,

they just want to dance—

I can't leave the bank.