MyHaikuYear

ice on the lake
so many ways of reading
a poem



Father Roseliep, who was a Catholic priest and writer of often very sensual haiku, described what a poet does: "With language he puts flesh on ideas and feelings; to airy nothing he gives local habitation and name."

Assigning local habitation and name to this image is easy: Yellowwood Lake yesterday, an extraordinary winter day. Mr. Darce and I took a hike here for a pleasant change, though we had to navigate an icy gravel park road to get to the trail head. But it was more than worth it. The sky was that magnificent deep blue that I like to call New Mexican blue (no matter where I find it). The lake was totally frozen though not enough to walk on, and about two inches of crunchy snow made walking the trail pleasurable. We climbed the big hill behind the lake and then walked on an old logging road. The air smelled amazingly fresh with that sweet crisp sent of snow. Someone had come before me, a solitary hiker, and I enjoyed following in his/her tracks.

After awhile, I heard a loud chirrupy sound that came closer and closer. A low hiss also was sounded. I was wondering what type of conveyance was making the latter sound when two young woman on dirt bikes rounded the bend swishing through the snow and talking a mile a minute. "We wondered whose tracks they were," they said pointing. "Not mine," I said, "Haven't gone that way yet." And they were gone.

But the day was not. Wonderfully quiet again and still. And all mine.