somewhere, between yesterday and tomorrow,
is this ache we call today.
this ache is the image of a moon, half full
and the color of harvest, hanging low and wild with beauty
but leaving no light in the sky.

the air is colder, crisper than i remember.
former winters did not seem this cold, this long.
this cold?
this long?

waiting for 'around the corners' i find that
i run into corners--
corners i have tried to miss to get to someplace else.

is every season of betweens defined by sorrowed discontent?

i fight the urge to grapple always, only
for some gift of human touch.
contentedness waylays all expectation.