FROZEN WEEDS
WERE GOALPOSTS

where corn grew tall     two seasons before
our open air arena     rippled and bumpy

we shot castoff pucks
past frosted clumps of earth
and shorn stalks
wobbly ankles on sharpened blade
laughing    cheering
'til jack frost bit
our fingers and our noses

we skidded to our hay bale bench
shoved tingling toes into waiting boots
and hurried to a warm kitchen