Well, the shoreline in winter is an implied space, only accessible by the imagination or memory – between the limbs of trees it is faintly visible. Hidden beneath an acrostic set of lines and scratches – pathways made by wind, animals wild & domestic, and those humans and their machines.
Which way to traverse ?
How transparent a boundary – an enigma in white parable waiting for you.
Irony comes here to sit.
White sharp lines converse
only of cold memories,
broken hieroglyphs –
Cursive trails stalk slopes
shifting right then left, questions
remark to straight lines.
Straight lines carry an ancient text that tracks time’s passing moments in crystallized remembrances of many things. Crunching notes play out a melody to match the wind’s lyrics. Suspended growth recedes into small puddles that then hardens and glisten beneath the night sky. Etched seconds crumble into the white surface – transcribed by shifting air.
Benchmarks of passage
straight inline quandary shapes
The shoreline sleeps, waiting to be aroused by sunlight’s touch. It will then once again lap against the implied space where water meets the land. For now, it is swallowed, made invisible by winter’s tight smile.