The pure polar blanket of alabaster that once lay at the feet of sleeping trees no longer reflects the faint day’s light from barren skies of grey. Vanquished from the surface, transformed into liquid tinder, fueling the inferno of rebirth overhead.
The lake’s opaque tempered shell falls victim to longer days of Spring. Solar rays peel back Winter’s mask from the great mirror’s face, once again allowing Mother Nature’s image to rebound into the heavens.
I am but a single bard, standing in awe as the muse of the cosmos whispers gently in my ear; inspiring my voice, empowering my pen, painting my soul with respect; a respect of this place here and now, this beautiful place, adrift among the stars.
Who boldly trespass in the dark of night, leaving only etchings for me to see? Eluding detection, hidden from sight, truly clever intruders they must be. Gravity to them simply does not apply, frolicking about on my sideways pane. Is it magic? Or perhaps they can fly? Ah yes! Flight is the secret of their reign. Visions of whimsy, my mind’s eye beholds. Dancing and skating upon my window’s ice. Seemingly boundless, thriving in the cold; who’s impressions vanish with the new day’s light. As I sleep, they flutter about my home. I take solace, in that I’m not all alone. ~Hugh A Tague