It’s not just his shoes.
Here are his skates.
Filling them means putting on the old steel-toed boots
the night before, grabbing a shovel, and
heading down to the pond to clear snow off the ice.
If it’s going to be cold enough overnight
you can use that snow to dam the out-stream
with a berm just high enough
to let the water rise
over the bumps in the ice.
Back inside, feed the fire in the stove,
and set the wet socks and boots to dry nearby.
Next morning, pencil the angle of the sunrise
on the window sill and date it,
check the indoor/outdoor thermometer,
make a fresh fire.
Step feet back in warm socks and stiff leather,
and test if the pond’s new surface is frozen solid.
To fill his skates means to leave them at the bottom
of the ragged cardboard box where they’ve been
since you got yours,
to follow your kids
as they wobble towards the pond on theirs.
Broad-faced smile
alternating with stern warning,
watch the kids glide,
but keep tracing the edge of the ice
with one toe.
This poem originally published in Preliminary Visions, now available at Stillwater Books.
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