A Cold Front
The air is brisk. Engaging.
Better than this day deserves.
Close fog sniffs at curls of
rising steam from the lake,
and all I hear is
the lapping of wandering
waves against a metal rowboat.
But summer will come;
manicured lawns,
yellowed by heat.
dVerse Quadrille #23 “Curl”
You’ve painted a picture here — monochrome at the time…the close fog curling over rising steam from the lake…the metal rowboat…indeed the image you’ve chosen matches the words so well. And then, the ending lines add the hope, and the one word of color reminds us what will come. Love this so much!
I’ll be around reading and commenting after dinner tonight.
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I can feel the cold in your poem, Misky, especially in:
‘Close fog sniffs at curls of
rising steam from the lake’
and I love the sound of:
‘the lapping of wandering
waves against a metal rowboat.’
I caught a note of sadness in the final three lines – do you love cold, frosty days as much as I do?
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Thanks, Victoria.
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It's Still Life 
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