by Don G. Morgan
I see the grandeur of the snow
covered winter trees, and the lake.
A cloud dark sky, the moon,
the center of a filigree of light gleaming in
reflected on the lake’s white frost.
And above that
a cathedral of towering pillars,
mushrooms and cones.
While beneath the snow, the lake sleeps,
dreaming of her lover, moaning
softly as the ice turns against the shore,
the moon’s pale light keeps watch.
A brook shatters its cell of silence.
The earth allows
a bashful smile.
a drop of clear water
purl quietly on the lake’s glass.
The moon softens its stern gloom
rising among naked limbs of
red maple and a wreathe of clouds,
releasing broad lanes of light
to illuminate the silent water.
Pwca dances on the branches,
as a delirious pale flare
races along the shore,
now the lake moves pendulum slow
beneath the light of the hungry
breathing together, they
couple in the glory of renewed love.
How could day ever understand
the perfect mysteries of the night?