I had supposed
it was sun’s warmth
that allowed the frozen lake
to remember its fluidity.
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This year, I watch, I listen.
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Sun carves
holes in ice;
night recoats them
with transparent stillness.
Wind comes,
blustering, buffeting force.
Ice creaks and groans
and breaks apart.
The lake
remembers movement;
its interior currents
persevere with wind’s work.
With thaw
come surge and flood,
release and ecstasy,
unbridled power and overwhelm.
The land
slakes its thirst,
opens into
its own messy awakening.
The lake returns to itself,
its fluid, shifting moods,
and, beneath,
that deep reflective calm.
May 2019