How Winter Turns to Spring (provisional)

The story plays out each time I crest the small hill

Especially in March with the first fresh winds.

That’s when this time is just like before

Any every past year at this time

Gets bundled up in this moment once again,

Somehow eluding time,

Or, strings those years together in one long now.


The truck rattles over the small hill,

While I still carry the sleep

That barely took hold last night.

One of those rare nights

The tossing and turning

Hoping to shake it off.


The thoughts coming as little sprouting flowers

Then roll over once more

To see them as festering memories

That won’t leave.

They come in on that breeze, maybe.

Just like last time.


That night the light rain dripped off the eave

Into the puddle by my window

Speaking in between all those thoughts

That can’t quite hear the steady rhythm outside.


Rolling down the hill, the day

Seeming like it could be the last

Feeling like maybe the first.


The day little routines go wrong,

Bringing a stutter step to the movements

In a day that rings in the last of that

Or ushers in the first of something.


This day rides on the hope of something,

This, or that, but really,

All the while,

The day just hovers in between.

Just like it always did.

It’s always just in between.


The early evening drive into town

The hum of the tires over the rough asphalt

Turning west,

Where the sun sprawls over the

rain clouds, painting a familiar picture

The colors announcing the last of the day

Or, maybe the first of something.


But never in between,

No idea of in between.


Like it just might be this,


So that tomorrow might be the first or the last

Of something.


Yes, somehow, I skipped the in between

Coming over that hill this morning.

Forgot that it might be just like it always was

And always will be. In between.

Just barely,

In between.


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