For a friend

The pond told a story that day in its ephemeral icy web. Oddly unique and universal, like the prints we leave behind hand in hand. Where did it come from? How did it form? There is no one definite answer, and only God's interventionless watching could let it take form. No. Perhaps it was His omniscient hand that etched the hieroglyphics, meant for our deciphering alone. It's tale is complex: a twig tossed here, leaves fallen there, the breeze on an eastern voyage. Fossils. Desire and Fear battle to touch the delicate, shatterable barrier to reveal stirrings within. The frozen Picasso decays leaving lasting cobwebs of its resplendent fragility. But, the
pond remains and plays as lightheartedly in April as it endures steadfastly through January's unrelenting grip.