Eighteen Weeks

From frozen lake to frozen
Lake, from pre-holiday slate

With ice-fishers in camp chairs
And parkas beside gouged holes

To post-resurrection white
Still almost solidly iced

But with the first fly-fisher
At a gap under aspens.

Every cherished place should have
A storm-enforced off-season

To keep you away awhile,
So that there’s joy in return

And a moment to take stock
Of a growth spurt for the past.