From an open window,
I wanted
Warm air
to cling as
another skin
carried by sun
awakening me
each morning
Ready to swim.
in your same suit
The same old thing.
You making art
And me hoping for
a word
with a ring.
Time won’t be
banked, moving
on un-reined
to become
the same
old thing.
Not remembering
whether you don’t want
this or
don’t know
that you do.
Moving ahead,
a mind grinding its
way through
as it must to
find water below
thick ice without
an augur for spring.
It is for some, a beginning
and others ending
what was and would be
the same
old thing.