Near Mid-January

 

3/4 panorama
MacDowell Lake, Peterborough

 Near Mid-January

 

A small thaw has wandered across the lawn,

a widening eye.  Last

fall’s blonde offerings almond-shaped

in the blink unfreezing.  All of December’s near

foot of snow is now a thin misgiving, slippery.

I don’t know enough about the weather,

 

barely more than how to weather it.  Yesterday

near to 50, & our lake is slush now.  A boy

with his skates makes his way home, fist

gripping the blades, laces like hazy,

charm lazy, baby snakes.  They sway

 

against his ski-pants and make a language

I cannot translate.  But if I were

in his skin and walking away from the

untamed lake I might be awake enough

to say wait—it’s slush today and winter’s

 

not even close yet to staying. 

God’s off galivanting, and all that’s left

on bottom is deep

sleeping in the crust of mud it has made

itself a home in.  Something here too is

 

pulled, pulled the way an echo pulls, or

the way memory, stretched back, finds that

soap bubble waiting after all

this time, glossy, paused paused

watch it doesn’t pop.