Green Lake

On the lake's frozen lip
light from the boathouse
seeped through evening mist
and caught you in profile, your lips
pressed tightly together
betraying nothing.
Only when I tried to walk the water
to reach the fishermen's shanties
huddled at the lake's center
and the ice cracked,
puddling where I stepped
did you call out, worried,
to ask what I was doing.

I was listening to the snow
hiss around us
I was watching fine lines
race in crazy patterns
around my feet
But most of all I was waiting
for you to call me
away from danger
back to you.

--Vance Briceland

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