Traces

The winter is here. They've opened walkways for bikers over the frozen lake. Yet the sunshine feels so akin to spring, so precious little snow covers the land, that I can almost feel the apple trees blossoming with flowers. My memory is a turn of seasons. Our life is filled with phenomena, curious and incidental, and my rational mind can only traverse them like my feet leave traces on the untouched snow. But do they mark the icy cover of a frozen lake?