Water of the lake turns colder by the day,
Waits like liquid mercury in early morning mist,
Stone grey ripples on its surface,
Whatever life it harbors hidden until spring.
Flocks of birds are flying south.
Before dawn, I hear them crying as they take flight
Toward some silent quiet space beyond my sight.
I feel cold tears run down my face.
Do I hold on to love of flowers even as the summer dies?
Or do I learn to let go, surrender as falling leaves
To inevitable white death of winter,
Or do as friends now do— flee south along with birds?