The Ice is an Artwork

Although it’s cold,
Like the evening breeze,
I am told,
That I must please.

With knees tightly bent,
I begin to glide,
On the white cement,
I must stride!

Through a spin,
And next a jump,
I have to win,
I must not slump.

With gritted teeth,
I hear the sound,
Of the final stroke,
On the ground.

My blades are glistening,
The crowd begins to cheer,
Though I am listening,
I smile through the tears.

It’s these cold moments,
That warm my heart,
The deliberately chosen pigments,
That complete the art.