winter’s lake

Frosty winds freeze finger tips.
Warm breath condensates on lips.
Chapped by years of weathered drifts
the pines stand bare in ownership
of waters edge, now sheets of ice
below fresh snow and leaves that spice
the solid white of sky and ground.
The thought and call of home entice
he fisherman. They seek their prize,
like we do under new moon rising
high above entwining branches,
watching down with closed eyes.
This frozen desert, this sacred place,
holds the light and natural grace
of young souls, twirling in first dance.
They're all entranced, with hearts that race.