When the lake finally freezes over and the vast expanse is covered with snow, and before anything settles there, there is a great chill that rushes the shore. A white blank slate stretches shore to shore, a canvas, my canvas.
I painted memories of a small girl growing in age, but hardly height, making snowmen with her mother and cousins; or, of her cousin and friend snowmobiling right through them. The little girl cried to see her creation destroyed.
When the little girl looked from the window to the lake below she saw one midnight blue square on the whole white lake world. It was there that she could paint the sky with her skates, etch the stars with her blade.
Soon the midnight and the white would lease its land to the fisherman and the snowmobiles. Cities, however temporary, would change address to the lake while the lion still roared out a winter.
In the New Year the world still sleeps, and under the lake the fish are far away.
White snow singing
My breath is sweet with snowflakes
Happy is my tongue
And while the world sleeps through the waking hour it dreams of the potential spring. I see potential in the winter too, she is the little girl who creates with all the colors of the world a peaceful snow angel full of light.
Happy New Year!
No comments:
Post a Comment