“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” —Leonardo DaVinci


Before the arrival of spring’s equinox
the smallest of the Great Lakes begins its thaw.
The melt begins in the middle,
where snow once undulated
like sand raked in a Zen rock garden,
the ice so thick it bore the weight of snowmobiles.
Now the white turns to dark green-gray,
and only along the shore does ice still cling white.
Then, at once, overnight,
the water has waves once more. 

Beside the nearby highway
the face of the granite escarpment,
furrowed like an elder’s face,
weeps a steady stream of tears
from foot-long icicles.

(Dreamers Creative Writing, 2019)


© Greg Stidham  2016