From the gray-shingled boathouse
came the instructor's ticking voice and music.

The young women's ballet shoes on the floor,
were thumps or whispers, all depending.

Then, the women came out the windowed door,
with their white tights, flushed faces,

tight-hair buns, dark leotards; I turned towards them
as if something were amiss or I were waiting.

The instructor came out, white-haired in a gauzy wrap.
I tucked my chin to my bent knees

and looked at the autumn leaves reflected in the pond,
and too, at the island in the middle with its

weeping willows and fresh-mowed grass.
This will be fast, I thought.

And once in winter, one time,
I skated on the gray ice, and thought,

I will do this from now on,
but I did not, and too,

there were silly races with costumes and rowboats,
and then, years later, I came alone to sit

by the pond, my chin tucked to my bent knees,
as if I were waiting, or had missed something.