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
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
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.