We waited for admission,
sliding around like
disoriented ducks on ice — novices
to the winter but curious
what wonders lay in the watery depths
below — not eager to get wet.
So we wait, not sure
what may come, skating
by on what passes for looks
at this age, but certain that together
we are stronger swimmers
unafraid of the cold.
Morning arrived with an icy slap
of good intentions — a cheeky
red reminder to weather another day.
Will the unwritten tourist hasten
to the conclusion, twenty-four unlived
chapters cut for time?
Or will she hold the day close and enjoy
whatever blows in with the chill, knowing
we cannot choose the story but relish the book?
The sun illuminates
what night tries to hide — a colorless tale
cannot survive long.