we would have seen this:
how each season
is precipitated
by its unwelcome antecedent.
And yet, crawling
through winter
or fleeing summer's heat,
the weight of time
and rote-ness of regret
will still pool
and enter through
the center of our pupils.
Our sightlines toward safety
and comfort and hope
are soon overgrown
with the colorless light
of yesterday nights
and formless sounds
of foreboding tomorrows,
as, once again, we curdle
with another autumn's
stiff wind,
or clot
at the thought of another
spring's floodwaters.
And so we stand
at the edge of it always,
hurtling curses
and crippled by inertia.
Invariably, someone will say,
it's the obstacle
which becomes the way;
but just as often, we know
by now,
it all goes down
vice versa.
