Bitter cold returns with ambivalent sunshine. A concrete hulk, craggy remnant of a vaguely remembered noble purpose is draped today, white and solemn, standing off shore like a catafalque.
Cold, gray, rainbow beach is mine alone- mine and a squatting goose sedulously giving me a disparaging eye. The improbable city across the rippling gray lake was washed in gray. Suddenly, stunningly, the lowering sun slipped a shaft of light through the resolute cloud cover and illuminated the city like a risen Atlantis.
Unattractive and uninspiring, a shabby sheet of green-gray canvas merges with the green-gray watery expanse dampening my vigor; stifling my mettle. When I change my point of view and look out my living room window, there is light, there is life, sparkle and zest.
Calm, cloudy, desultory, boring. The lake retires to herself, suggesting that I do the same.
An earlier lethargic malaise is cast away; the lake frolics in the late afternoon sun. As we tip toward the dark, slanted coral streams light up the coruscating waters leaping and splashing and playing. The lake chooses its moments; defines its mood; shows off its magnificent beauty and power while I stand shivering and dazzled... Read more »
Her radiant energy spent, the lake drapes herself in a silent veil. With her, we retire; we breathe in communion. We are one with the lake, the shore, even the obscuring clouds.
The gloomy vapor holding our city, our lake in thrall for days, dispersed! From the chasms of this mysterious sea, the Lady of the Lake radiates irrepressible feminine power with the assurance- the future is female.
Apolmb and serenity of yesterday repudiated, the lake heaves and shudders in disgust at the litter scattered over her surface. Flotsam of grimy looking chunks and particles in untidy disarray reminds me of the time the little boys broke open the bean bag chair.
View from the kitchen window- a tinge of rose seeps through the murk at four in the afternoon. A clean bit of white, a prim and tasteful ermine accent along the hemline of the bay complements the sleek mosstone fabric that lies across my backyard. Elegant.
The final trip to the laundry for the chenille bedspread has taken its toll. It returned this morning tattered and threadbare, the soft luxurious pile matted. The fluffy covering laid across our lake is now shrunken and unsightly, in the process of disintegrating completely. Not even useful or attractive, the Salvation Army truck would disparage.... Read more »
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