christmas lake

I see the old men,
the women too, with their walking sticks.

off they go, around the lake,
ice blue and
cold.

the melt of a white sun is in the trees.
it's five miles
around.

I used to run it in the morning, but
now,
I join the pack, find
my stick
and walk

the beaten path. each
turn, each hill, each bend
in the road

is full of memory. each Christmas
I find myself
here.

alone, but happy.