January 1

comments 4
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Slate gray lake
a moving slate

each crescented line
a mark and an

erasure.
He said here lies

he whose name was writ
in water

and so is everything–
nothing completely

old, or new,
the same wave,

different molecules.
From this house

on a hill
the South end

of the lake
appears to glow

from within
now and then,

a thinning
of overcast skies,

more sophistry,
set against

snow-dusted hills
and block print

vineyards,
stark dichotomies

that thaw in
the afternoon.

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