Rosehips line the path,
lake, steely gray like the sky,
birds gather and drum.

Only chickadees
make a sound at the lake's edge—
the pressure of peace.

It's the leveler,
alive with birdsong and work—
the still lake in spring.

Familiar to me,
awake with a small heartache,
I remember it.

The fair messenger,
familiar melancholy—
can be a comfort.