From an open window,
I wanted
Warm air and sun in.
As I wake each morning
Ready to swim
Your suit worn
As though it was skin
The same old thing
You making art
And me hoping for
a word
with a ring.

Time won’t be
banked, moving
as it does, unreined.
And the same
old thing, forgetting
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.

rlb 10/2/2020