To the Lakehouse

To see the shoreline greet a wave,
To grasp the hand of fog;
Or hear a voice returned from cave,
Feel heat from embered log.
Our souls are stashed and stowed away,
Inside this A-frame form;
The wind-borne cold is kept at bay,
While hearth and stove are warm.
Broad windows show a host of trees:
Some fallen, others tall;
Behind a line of blue makes tease,
And loon begins to call.

Talbot Hook
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Talbot Hook would be pleased to hear them.