poem on poetry writing, by William Boggs

One of my favorite poets quickly raveled this bit for me during an email conversation. Any thoughts for a title? (Thanks for letting me post this, Bill)

Poems float to surface,
bubbles deep from a dark watered pond;
they cannot stop until they surface
and rejoin words' blue air.
Some are deep memories of past lives,
for as surely our lives are renewed
from time
to time,
person to person,
lovers gone or renewed,
and all is forgotten except air trapped
rising to surface in the thin skin
of a bubble
bursting,
poems, songs within the heart
of us
that does not change.