The Boathouse and the Lake

A boathouse stands on the shore
Of the lake of creativity.
A solid, open structure I built from scratch,
Though the pier has become rickety
From the lack of upkeep.
And the birthday-cake-icing-blue paint
Is beginning to peel.
I still visit this place regularly,
To peruse the vessels I’ve stored within.
One familiar vessel brings me closer to it:
A broken, wooden frame.
I’ve sailed with this idea before,
Exploring the undiscovered reaches of the vast lake
With crimson sail
Catching the brisk, refreshing wind of inspiration.
But now it rests dormant in the boathouse,
Hull in splinters
Among the other unfinished crafts
Standing upright against the wall,
Like soldiers in a row,
All awaiting their turn to set sail.
I depart from the building,
Staring out upon the lake,
Unable to hear the voice of the waves upon the shore.
The crystalline waters that used to diffract
The radiance of my life’s experiences
Are now silent and cloudy,
Kept still by a melancholy frost.