THIS SUNDAY

A year ago, this Sunday, you kissed me.

You entered me.

You made me aware

of things...

of things.

You made me imagine a future

a future different than today

a future full of hope and fun

and exploration.

It felt new and fresh

a year past this Sunday

when you first kissed me.

Now

four seasons later

the world has sprung back

to its rightful place

and I see the systems

as they should be seen.

But I am not without imagination.

It has not been so long

that I cannot recall that day

nigh unto twelve moons later

when you kissed me.

It's only bee a year, you see.

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