Inertia

The seasons change quietly. Nights fall
in a rush and dawns crawl in disharmony
of rain crystals--each a body that kisses itself
in the day’s spaces.

A small spot of expectation lingers on your smile--maybe
for what I said or what I will say though
I have not found the words yet and their rhythm
in my throat is similar to drenched runners’
on a holed path.

Waiting! What kind of change is it, I wonder
as you comb your hair and I squeeze
water crystals on the windowpane.