untitled #12

Quick bitter late-winter winds
Blow through barren branches on the edge of the ice-thick lake
While early spring leaves cling to life, making a comeback

Footfalls slow and soft-bound warm in leather trudge uneasily
Deep prints left from your door to mine
Coming and going but covered quickly by time

Shadows cast by the flock overhead remind me that we all have somewhere to be
Somewhere south, maybe; but I think my place is here,
Among the snapping wind and ice upon my face.

The lake holds close to what it knows:
That leaving is just the other side of staying,
That every migration makes a circle
If you wait long enough.

I am learning to be
That which remains;
Not the gadwall with compass-certain wings,
Nor your steps erased by snow.

But the lakeshore itself:
Steadfast, cold-blessed,
Wearing the seasons like a series of names
I answer to but do not claim.