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for Ann Althouse

What makes the lake a body of its own
Is blue and cold, acceptable as prose,
Unexpected as poetry that’s grown
Beyond its words – a liturgy that grows

And glitters, glacier-like, while weighing down
With weathered time the slowly massing floes
That squeeze a lake’s existence out of stone.
So passing passion into patience slows

The blood but speeds the wave to the tideline
In a land of lakes and stars; both repose
In the other’s eye — fire and water shine
Together secrets each the other knows.


  1. Beautiful! Thanks, JOB.

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