Friday, March 20, 2015
on a cracked concrete step
I look at the
depressed flat grass
that doesn't even resemble itself,
Just recently revealed,
spokes of green are beginning to peek.
My eyes close
I imagine the smell of green
the warmth of yellow
and the beauty of pinks and oranges
glowing and reflecting on
the lake that is calling me.
Likely still glazed in a layer of ice
ducks walk on the shifting plates
fish move a little more quickly
as warmth over takes the frozen water.
I wonder about the sand.
Is it blowing?
Has it molded to the shape of the wind?
Would my footprints disrupt this dance?
I wonder, miles from this place of solitude,