I walked for a while,
out on a frozen lake.
The sharp clarity of blues upon blue.
And I, in the middle of these layers,
a pepper speck,
a contrast in the flat light of winter.
Why does and empty world have beauty?
As people cling together,
like magnets on an icebox door,
I am here with no one,
and I am here with everything.
I could sleep in the mountain’s shadow,
for an hour?
And it would not judge my sloth,
for change comes on cat’s feet in this place.
Movement is not witnessed in moments,
but measured in months.
As ice becomes thicker,
snow becomes deeper,
and daylight fades faster.
I could sleep
I could rest,
Rethink the vanity
that is the modern mind.
Eventually these banks will be full of flowers,
Bees and bull moose will skirt the shoreline,
The bustle of midsummer madness.
But all of that lies on the other side of a circle,
a path that has always been followed,
and will continue
long after the last city cigarette has been snuffed out.
Can I afford to wait here longer,
and watch the birches shiver?
Or will the world be different when I return?