Everything wants to wander. Runoff from the roof pleasantly pads down and out the metal eaves in fluid boots. I myself meander where plows once piled a snowstorm, where thin rivers now glaze the pavement. Everything wanders away when it must. Winter's final footprints stand scattered across the landscape as clots of blackened snow. My aimless walk takes me to the lake, where the last thin layer of ice has cracked into thousands of shards, all of them jostling against each other in the undulating waves. People stop to hear this music only March can make. For one afternoon, the lake surface sizzles.
Copyright 2010 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in 2011 by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets
Photo by Marcus Lofvenberg at unsplash.com