Lake Champlain in February

In Six Haikus

These ecstatic trees 
by the wide white plain of ice,
a danse macabre:

Wild crooks, forks agag,
trunks pirouette, finger-bones
castigate. The lake?

Imperturbable,
queenly, serene as virtue,
stone deaf to our cries.

A stoned ice fisher,
in his catch-as-catch-can hut
jigging for Buddha

counts as nothing, 
a flaw of no consequence
to her Zeroscape.

One day, oh proud ice,
you’ll crack like a bad idea.
No one will think you.