should it not follow winter that
i wake my body in the springtime?

i want everything i do to be
a walking into a cold river

i choose to believe i keep
the sunlight that torches my skin

could it be that we are accumulations
of the wind and history?

a gust the size of galaxies
still moving the tiniest leaves

coincidences are just the
enormous wind remembering itself

coincidentally what passes thru my ears
the hawk considers its keenest tool

it is summer and my body, awake
is an accumulation of all the sun that's blown

it is the function of time to rearrange
familiar things until they are unrecognizable

i cannot remember something;
just the wind forgetting itself