accomplished
Homeside
A lead-gray lake lilts beneath the sky,
as limp as silk without the wind,
all edged with snowy lace.
Where the water grows shallow,
a buoy bobs on the surface
like a red bead rolling on gray cloth,
the only spot of color in a monochrome world.
Two cabins stand on the beach,
their weathered gray clapboard
denying the winter its entrance.
They have their backs to the wind
and their shuttered faces to the water.
Docks there are,
pointing toward the lake,
but the little boats
all have their noses homeward.
Nobody but the birds
will be going out today.
