Eighty-Three

What does it mean to be eighty-three
When the woods are quiet
With nothing but snow, the moon
And the half black night?

With a wish
Turn a lake
Into a huge arena
And skate with the grace
Of a young ballerina
While the trees stand stark
In black lace admiration. No animal
Watches or hears
The gnashing of skates;
No eyes, no breath
But those of the skater
And the specks of the milky way.

The moon remembers; then fades
Behind a floating mound
And slowly pulls the curtain of dark
On another dream.
But as tonight, tomorrow
Or any day
It is an adventure
To be eighty-three.