Warmth

Down the street from my house 

was a lake that held no secrets, 

so clear and so blue 

you could see all the way to the bottom. 

It was always snowing there. 

The wind always 

swirled around the lake, 

pushing the snow left to right, 

pushing me from young to old. 

Every afternoon

after school, 

I would walk by the lake routinely,

watching

as the seasons pass by.

In the winter, 

snowflakes floated down 

into a soft pillow of powder.

One time, 

the lake froze over, 

and I stepped onto it for 

the first time. 

All I did that winter 

was jump around the dark glassy ice.

Bundled up in my wool knit sweater, 

I felt warm. 

I was huddled in 

the comfort of winter. 

In the spring, 

half-opened saplings 

drifted down to the concrete landing. 

Fresh grass sprouted from the damp soil, 

a mist of fragmented  

green pine filled the air. 

The cool breeze whisking 

through my hair, 

keeping me warm as 

I tried bottling up the smell, 

waving around an empty glass to 

fill to the brim. 

In the summer, 

it snowed a 

cloud of white daisies.

Some hydrangeas bloomed 

around the bank too, 

in all shades of blue and pink. 

My family and I took a whole collage book 

full of pictures in front of the flowers. 

A picture of warmth 

as the sun shone down on our 

olive-pale skin.

In the fall, 

seas of maple leaves 

filled the shore. 

It was when all the trees 

turned orange. 

As if I was walking into a sunset, 

the trees beamed down on me, 

warming me up in the 

waft of the chilly autumn air. 

When I turned 7, we moved away. 

The routine stroll by the lake 

transformed into a daily 

commute in the car. 

The snowy environment I was used to 

blurred into flashes of 

urban traffic––

so compact with secrets,

so much uncertainty to unfold.

It was a new kind of warmth 

that I would eventually need to embrace.