Sadly it never occurred to me to photograph the place

As all of you fellow Seattlites know, Green Lake is the city's mecca for urban runners, walkers, bikers, dog walkers, and couples strolling along romantically. On nice weekend days, about 9,400 people visit, but you're reminded how small Seattle really is as you cross paths with friends and acquaintances. Twenty-four hours a day and three hundred sixty-five days a year, Seattlites circle the 2.9 mile long trail (3.1 miles on the outer trail by the roads). It's where people go to think, socialize, and even advertise. Buffered from the multi-million dollar homes by rolling fields and copses, a few notable landmarks make it everybody's lake. The old Green Lake Library, build by Andrew Carnegie sits across from the community center, a common meeting place. The tiny Seattle Public Theater at the Bathhouse is recognized by many, noted for the handy water fountain, but visited by few. Green Lake Aqua Theater has been largely dismantled, out of use since shortly after the Grateful Dead played there in 1969. And like every living thing, the lake changes with the season.

Die hard Green Lakers grumble about how crowded it is in the summers, having to weave between punks skateboarding, kids running around oblivious to the flow of traffic, and of course stray balls and frisbees. The glacially carved lake's waters are disrupted by dogs and swimmers braving the "Green Lake itch" on their way to the floating platform. All sorts of water fowl nest in the reeds (much to the delight of The Beast), and old men sit with their fishing lines cast out in hopes of snagging trout, carp, musky, bass, perch, and bluegill. The fields and copses are filled with rabbits, squirrels, and raccoons- again, to the delight of The Beast.

I've sat on the pier reaching towards Duck Island countless summer nights, my feet dangling and the moon reflecting off of the calm, dark water. Sometimes when the moon was full, I felt like I could just step onto the water and walk along its shimmering path. I imagined building a little cottage on the tiny island, rowing to shore each morning to head to work. Literally an island in the city.

The fall finds crew teams launching their shells, their shouts audible as they speed past the walkers on shore. High school cross country teams jog over and groups of gangly young boys and chatty young girls pass by in waves. Kids enjoy kicking through the gathering leaves, and there's a subtle sense of on oncoming slumber, a period of hibernation coming soon. The crowds start to thin out, babies are hidden in their strollers by colorful blankets, and the birds slip away unnoticed until one day you realize it's nearly winter.

Green Lake in the winter is a season I still enjoy. There are restaurants to duck into, out of the cold rain and wind. There's the omnipresent Starbucks, small cookie shop, Green Lake Bar & Grill, and of course my favorite- Spud Fish & Chips. If you walk the lake clockwise, you'll arrive at most of those just after finishing walking the most exposed part of the path where your cheeks have been chapped from the wind, despite an upturned collar and scarf, and your hands have been kept from freezing only by jamming them deep into pockets. It's invigoratingly miserable.

Then there's spring. Green Lake awakens from its green and grey slumber. Bright pink and white cherry trees lighten your mood, and the awkward Seattlites, withdrawn for the winter, tentatively make eye contact once again and quietly offer hello's. It's a season of hope and a sense of excitement covers the city. The growing number of Green Lakers optimistically wear fewer layers but still carry rain jackets and gloves for those unpredictable lapses back into winter.

I'm reminded of all this simply because I read a poem by Mary Oliver yesterday. She reminds me that poetry isn't necessarily for stuffy academics, lessons in memorization, or sappy lovers. No, poetry is a sculpture of words meant to allow us to see the beauty of a moment, a relationship, or a feeling from a unified position. A few years back, on a cold April afternoon, I was walking around Green Lake with a friend. There was an old school desk in a field, shielded slightly from the light rain by a tall tree. An eccentric woman sat bundled up with simple letters fastened to the front of the desk reading "POET." The Poetess of Green Lake. Admittedly skeptical, curiosity won out and she chose a poem to read out loud to me. I don't know why she chose it, and I don't even remember what it was, but I remember the simple pleasure of being read to by a perfect stranger on a cold, rainy spring day at Green Lake.

It's unlikely that I'll ever become the Poetess of Anywhere, but I think we all have poetry to offer. We have our hands, our ears, and our hearts to give- sculpting goes beyond words and statues after all. God is pursuing us all, appealing to our hearts in intimate ways. What poems do you hear? What poems do you write?