tick
wouldn’t it be nice
if i could
spring! ahead
to the part where
i’m sure as mid-summer
instead of tentative
as the thawing
of what may or may not be
the last frost
tick
if the distance between
the bud i am
and the bloom i’ll be
could be leapt as easily
as the hour we
assented
to twirl right past
tick
then again
if i wither instead
these long minutes
of restlessness
tick
and uncertainty
tick
and hope
tick
and possibility
tick
could be
the best long minutes
of what passes
(too quickly, they say)
for a life
This living requires an awful lot of getting comfortable with in-betweens, does it not? In fact, as far as I can tell, that’s practically all there is to it.