The In-Between Hour

The In-Between Hour

The world holds its breath

for a fleeting moment,

as the fingers of daylight

slip gently

from the hand of the earth.

Night

has reached the doorstep,

yet has not crossed the threshold.

It is then

that the streetlamps

awaken one by one—

like fireflies

frozen high above the ground.

The last train

shares a long sigh

with the rails.

From its turning wheels

leap tiny sparks,

little suns

that die away

before they can kiss the earth.

Somewhere,

a kitchen lamp

still refuses sleep.

A kettle

hums itself

toward silence.

Unconcerned

with the rise and fall

of empires,

a cat,

having wandered

through the kingdom of sleep,

slowly opens

its amber eyes

and decides

that this silence alone

is reason enough

to remain awake.

This is

the truest hour

of the word

almost.

Almost a moment...

Almost a memory...

Almost a self...

Almost a journey

towards the person

who once believed,

with innocent certainty,

"This is who I shall become."

And by then,

the old moon

will rise

as though

nothing at all

has happened.

Not whole—

almost round.

Not entirely truthful—

almost carved away.

Yet,

for this evening walk,

it carries

just enough light

to tell the road home

from the darkness.