Your girls will take the ice in an hour,
and I am listening to a quiet cello.
I laughed when I considered the image—
girls slamming into boards,
you throwing your voice as your will,
the way the rink smells like winter,
like sweat and brilliance.
And I am sitting in a darkened chapel,
silence all around,
beeswax and tea and labyrinths,
a secret smile on my lips.
I like how sometimes,
we are the mix of quiet and energy,
of retreat and excitement,
and all of it love in its many textures and moods.