It is a frozen tableau that frames one's vision, who dares,
a lake nestled within a protective circle of bristly trees,
it's surface a cold layer of ice inches deep, still and opaque,
protecting the water beneath from prying unwanted eyes.
The ice holding all life in the lake within its embrace,
nurtured within its depths cold and still as the air outside,
the mist that rises from its surface in the break of dawn,
the only sign that it does exist below the cold armor.
The pine trees with their needles pricking any visitor,
while the tree in its dormancy waits out the winter cold,
the brambles' thorns cutting deep into skin to deter advances,
as they try to make the lake an invincible impregnable fortress.
The milieu plays itself out as the winter runs its frigid course,
the bushes and trees gradually cloaked in the white of snow,
as the lake seeks to disappear and pretend not to even exist,
reclusive and withdrawn, almost antisocial, brooding in isolation.
Till one day the chickadee starts whistling in merry celebration,
heralding the onset of the warm winds of spring that bring life,
and healing to the bower, warming the ice out of its frozen veins,
thawing the snow till green peeks from underneath the white blanket.
The chainmail of ice develops a chink as the sun's rays warm,
the cockles of the lake's frozen heart and the weed rises timid,
venturing out into the first signs of the oncoming life of spring,
as the lake itself lets its waters venture out to breathe in life.
As the days pass, the blanket of white creeps back in sad defeat,
and the lake, emboldened by its successful return, returns to vigor,
clear and glistening in the sunshine that now bathes the bower,
bringing it back to the glorious abandon that its life is and should be.