Ice Rink

Four years.
And now the cavernous well
which yawned inside
has become so familiar
that I can skirt around
its slippery-scree edges
with confident, easy steps.

Slowly I have papered over
the beckoning blackness
(don't look down!)
with strips of transluscent tissue paper;
building layer upon layer
into a papier mache ice rink
crisp as an egg shell,
which one day
may be strong enough to bear my weight.