With intent to transmogrify You might still halt, transfixed by words, failing, failing, metaphorically-speaking to discern your squeaky damper from your clotted anchor, failing, also, to envision the faded need for either once earth and water, wind and fire make their U-turns. You can't maintain the faith in form allowing transformation. And you are left half-thirsty, covered with ashes, and afraid forever of drowning. The terror of choice you are born with. But you have desired, privately, some great change, that alchemy of spirit called putting your past behind you. Supposedly, it is only another sunset, boats and fireplaces keep their casual and visible meaning. Because it is summer, hearths are swept and cool. There is a sliver moon, new. Above you, in a sky aged hues past baby blue, someone has seen fit to let sail a cluster of five red balloons. And below, the ubiquitous child is imagined to cry. The only consolation, you think, is that at least if you never grow up you will never grow old.
