For as long as the lake could remember
the air had been cold. Day or night, whether
it danced as a breeze or blew with the force
of a gale, cold was its unrelenting story.
And the lake believed it and knew itself
to be ice, stretching from shore to shore,
strong enough to hold the weight of a deer
or of a man. Then, one January day,
the rays of the sun, warm as spring,
fell on its surface, gleaming with truth.
At first, the ice resisted. “I am ice,” it said.
But the light of the sun kept burning
with love, insisting, “You are more.
You are ice, but you are more.” And the lake
began melting and rippling with joy,
and at last it knew that it was liquid
and free.