the voice

In the early spring

we walk the silent streets

near the lake

Off-season they call it

The shops are shut

all but a strange few

sandwich boards set out on sidewalks

so that passersby will know they are strange and

open

But not so much off season for us

The silence and the solitude and

the empty, ancient houses

their intricate carpentry covered in canvas

waiting out the snow and cold

Waiting for the spring

and spirited resumption

of life

of structure

of purpose

For us, though

is the silence and the solitude

escape

blessing

renewal

An abundance of us

filling the empty lanes

ours alone

for now

Ours to keep