You shadow me on your trails
but I remain hidden.

Once you wouldn’t let
me leave.
I kept driving on long
narrow roads.

Near twilight red white lights
of a fire truck flash on the far
side of your lake.

Who did you let fall through the ice?
Did you reveal yourself before the last breath?

I want to say all trails
lead to you and your grove
but I can’t. Yours is a narrow

way of ice and snow
with small sideways steps.

Where do they lead?
Will I still walk this way

come spring?

You coat the crab apple tree
in the parking island with fog
from your mist.

Encased in snow the picnic
tables invade your dreamtime.

There is no room for doubt.
Spring comes as the tree spins
acorn tops across the snow.

And a little color goes a long way
as the male cardinal poses in rich

green pines. Two men with a sled
blanketed with cold continue ice
fishing.

How did you make that pattern of swirls in the snow?
A few of your crystals catch at my throat.

Three deer halt and look over their shoulders,
two travel on but one stands there as if to ask
why we stopped in the middle of the road?

In your clear air my soul breathes open,
makes it hard to go home. I write
so that when I grow old I will remember

who I am and who you are. Remember paths
as I illustrate your words.
Flocks of turkeys last summer dwindle

down to two floundering through snow
by the roadside. And remember the day the ice
fog all but obscures your world.

What do you mean to me? Here I find
God and my soul. A sunset begins
rose-gold over your lake of blue

under ice and snow. Weeds
crystallize and seed beauty
in an otherwise barren world.

Ice bound my sprit rises and opens
up my life to your world as the trail turns
and you approach the lake:

This is my world and yours. Cherish it, love it,
walk it, make it our map of the world.