Parked beside the frozen lake
we munch blueberry muffins
and slurp our dark roast coffee.
The plain sheet of lake regards
the sky with something like worship
but lacking that subservience.
Such broad dimensions regret
nothing, rooted in creation
that continues to self-create.
No ice fishing, no snowmobiles,
nothing but an unwritten text.
Maybe the ice isn’t thick enough
to brace the wooden bobhouses
that used to pepper the scene
on the boldest winter mornings.
I wish we could fold up the lake
and an equal expanse of sky
and bring them home to install
in our back yard. Then we’d enjoy
this expanse until it thawed
and wept into the water table
where our deepest thoughts deploy.
