Changing Pressure

The snow drops in pumpkin-sized clumps from pitched roofs and my hand aches from the changing pressure. There is a springtime in the arctic. Today I write like breathing, a sign of life. My heart beats, and I trace lines of ink over ink-lined pages. I think this might never end. I think I am a moth chasing the moon.

These words will end, and continue. The same words, organized by my will and by the changing of the seasons and the contents of my belly.

I’ll live another love, more or less the same. Shaped by the changing of the seasons, the contents of our bellies.

So will these words then serve some other end? Or will I always hang them at the end of the dock, a green light calling you in?