The waters still not frozen on Trout Pond

And the ground wears a mere trace of snow

Like an old ladies flimsy threadbare nightgown

Ashamed that its intimacy may show

The trees also stand naked like old strippers

Denuded of their warm colors of fall

If it weren’t for the beavers on Trout Pond

They’d surely have no audience at all

In the air a vague scent of wood smoke

Someone warming up hearth and home

I stand there alone on the bank of Trout Pond

Wishing somehow I didn’t feel so alone

I pull up my collar against the North Wind

That suddenly must have its bitter say

Turn my back on the humility of Trout Pond

Time to face another new day…