ice is always audience looking up,
mesmerized by sky fixations.
gone are the migratories,
maybe flurries,
as a slight change of venue,
waiting for wind-swept to happen,
yet too early for thaw to be a visitor.
winter feels like endless window shopping
on a glass sky display going by.
holding tight to disposition and position.
ice, longing for travel time to come.
need for melt-mingling to be flow.
willing to praise gravity for the travel plan,
yet getting to the ocean,
is like getting on a crowd bus,
where all the seats are already taken.
ice memories like these fade,
once the phrenetic flow is back in action.
don't mind the posing,
but if I could cramp right now.
it would appear as a crack.
I want to be back on the watery stage,
back in the flow.
I liked my life
as a fluid broadway show . . .
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