Dear Ones - on the lakepath, runnels
of snowmelt, the bare willow branches
hazed with sun, only a few ice fishermen
still standing out on the ice, looking
into the fog on the lake's horizon.
Open water at the marsh inlet - two mallards
bobbing their heads at each other, a jostle
of other voices - the deep red of dogwood stems,
bright clusters of highbush cranberry,
black spatter of old leaves and crow.
My body asking to leap, to run -
everything breaking up, moving, speaking.