The Bottomless Lake

Deep in the woods of central Maine, Schoodic Lake lies placid and pristine, Its limpid, pure waters lapping against Shores of boulders crowned with cedars, Whose grey, writhen trunks and roots, Clinging doggedly to the lichen-streaked stone, Resist the winds from off the lake, Resist the blizzards of countless deep winters, Resist the inescapable ravages of time. The waters of the lake are cold and clear— As if newly born of distant melting glaciers, Or gushing up from unseen springs, far beneath. They say the lake is bottomless-- Its serene surface an expressionless face, Beneath which tempests, passions unguessed, Might bubble, and froth, and rage, Before at last sinking out of our ken. The lake, mirrorlike, reflects the tree-girt skies, Rippling gently, and seems at peace: But who can know what that visage hides, Where, far below, those umplumbed depths Conceal mysteries -- profound, immemorial, Unknown, and ultimately-- unknowable. April 4, 2019