The little things that make the land

Lie brittle on the lake: gray that wets

The air, blaze black ice sets


In stone, stone white rays 

Fret with air, wave-like clays

That form a riddled band


Around the borders of the lake,

Lace-like glare that takes

The icy place of summer sand      


On sun-white spans of flake and

Air and phases in the frozen shake

Of stony waves - plans that break


My heart in summer when they’re brand

New in the trees, somehow up the stake

When they fall asleep and freeze.


January 14th, 1990

Tippet Alley

September 28th, 2005