The eye of the lake is closed,
flat as a lie, and as thin.
We could walk across the lake
and talk quietly, a long time.
Soon it will darken, soft spots
will spoil, neither ice nor water.
But for now the shield of cold,
the sharp white edges of air
hold the lake still, a pondering,
a loving embrace.
Maybe it is not time yet
for your birthing, your ripening.
A page of white, a sheet made ready,
what silence looks like.
Beneath the surface, fish,
and a whole green summer ahead.
February 7, 2020