On a windy and brisk bright
late March day
the Widow Wyile went skating
up a mountain
on a pond still thick with ice
whereupon leaves
lay lambent in
small saucer holes
in the surface
shallow receptacles for alder
maple, ash, and poplar fallen
cradled in their refrigerated display 

These were easy enough to skate
around, as were the small islands
of bushes standing stuck
yet rimmed with black signs
of melt to come 

Around and around she flew
exulting in the air and
the feat of her fleet feet
despite speed skate blades
past due for sharpening
Aware of a wobble
imprecise edges
but still she stayed upright
until, putting her back to the wind
to save her face
one of those saucer holes
sent her smack bottom
head bonk
down 

The moral of this story
is predictable:
it takes but a split
second
a weency fraction
of time that both flits
and   s t r e t c h e s
as your hat flies off
your noggin bounces
and all about you
is snap * pop * blink
redirected