The cold wipes away the lingering scent of the new year,
we stand amidst timeless waters.
On a dock that bobs and sways to the tune of the light ripples on the lake,
we see the hills that bristle with pine,
peppered and dusted with flecks of snow.
These quiet witnesses
are slowly erased from memory
by a soft, white curtain of snow and mist
as if She were shuffling her petticoats in shame
having revealed the supple glory of her secret
in a moment of careless abandon.
But now better sense has prevailed.
If you must taste of the dew,
you must earn the right of initiation,
to gain entrance by shedding your own self,
a naked, flickering flame,
that holds its breath
and plunges into the great unknown.