Between Past and Tomorrows

I am still drawing back the bow
of the arrow
of my sorrow,
waving my arm in soft farewell,
caught mid-sway in shifting flow—
a clock hand stalled
between past and tomorrow.

The iron-ploughing oar will cleave
through fleeting now,
through waves that heave,
etching fractures in each row
as they grow,
braiding time in undertow.

Creating space, creating air,
stretching thin the here and there,
suspended in the moon’s slow rise—
adrift within
your tear-filled eyes.