My life, in a word, is not mine.
Only my hands are mine.
And up along the sore-brick spine.
My life, in a word, is the pain in my head.

The distraction positing on top of my mind submitting.
First warm-by-comparison moisture unfrozen
hair lifting squinting breeze of the changing season.

Of every season. Which I like the sound of.
Which has fulfilled this original position.

An opening line.
A thought brought to poetical completion.

My life in a word, is changing.
And for good reason.
I have just felt the warm-winded
initiation of The Changing Season.