March winds whip
across her slate grey body.
Not a boat afloat or a soul trolling.
Light presses through pinholes in the storm.
Unwelcomed, it shimmers, glances, bounces,
unable to penetrate the stern, icy silence.
The barren lake lies aloof,
shrugging off suitors
with wet shoulders and liquid distain.
No encouragement in her slicing surface,
she slaps the pebbled shoreline.
Icebound, hosting fisherman,
she seems friendlier.
Her virginal white invites extended visits,
she suggests a wedding,
a possible marriage.
Melted, she grows colder.
She distances herself.
She waves frigid fingers, carressing the freezing air.
Thankless, turgid, troubled,
she rocks and heaves.
On the edge,
cautious lovers consider her intentions.
Catalina
Cathleen and Chris
"The painter turns a poem into a painting; the musician sets a picture to music."
Robert Schumann
across her slate grey body.
Not a boat afloat or a soul trolling.
Light presses through pinholes in the storm.
Unwelcomed, it shimmers, glances, bounces,
unable to penetrate the stern, icy silence.
The barren lake lies aloof,
shrugging off suitors
with wet shoulders and liquid distain.
No encouragement in her slicing surface,
she slaps the pebbled shoreline.
Icebound, hosting fisherman,
she seems friendlier.
Her virginal white invites extended visits,
she suggests a wedding,
a possible marriage.
Melted, she grows colder.
She distances herself.
She waves frigid fingers, carressing the freezing air.
Thankless, turgid, troubled,
she rocks and heaves.
On the edge,
cautious lovers consider her intentions.
Catalina
Cathleen and Chris
"The painter turns a poem into a painting; the musician sets a picture to music."
Robert Schumann
