It is.

it is the interlude between winter and spring,
not warm enough for green,
not cold enough for grey,
an amorphous pearl hanging motionless
from the soft neck of infinity,
this is a separate season,
layers of cold huddling round trees
pretending to be warm,
the tepid light falling like snow
from the eye of a desultory sun,
it is the entr’acte between love and everything else,
not long enough for a ballad of ache,
not wrong enough for a masquerade,
a blemished poem sighing wordless
in the broken arms of complexity,
there is a separate reason,
for dissonance can grow to fill
any space between yes and no,
for distrust can paint green as grey
till the fog can shift no more,

it is the punctuated quiet,
it is the staccato scream,
it is this purgatory between now and
ever after.

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42 thoughts on “It is.

  1. It can be like that, hanging between seasons, neither here nor there, and you’ve captured it well. I especially enjoyed the lines:
    ‘an amorphous pearl hanging motionless
    from the soft neck of infinity’
    and,
    ‘it is the entr’acte between love and everything else,
    not long enough for a ballad of ache,
    not wrong enough for a masquerade’,

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  2. Oh gosh, this is a wonderful poem, rife with creative & fresh insights, & brimming with terrific word-smithing. Kim mentioned my favorite lines, but you really had me at /not long enough for a ballad of ache/ and /the blemished poem sighing wordless/.

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  3. Excellent! I feel caught “in the spaces” in your poem. As a little girl going to what my mom called “sister school” I learned about Purgatory. Each night I said one Hail Mary prayer and told God to use it for the one soul that just needed that one prayer to move from Purgatory to heaven. Wow — haven’t thought of that in years and years!! The waiting places…

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