To Every Day but New Year’s

Hellos are fleeting and overrated.

Goodbyes are empty and simply no good.


The time in the middle.

Both the surprises and the predictability.

The causes and the effects.

The Tuesday night dinners.

Pilled sweatshirts and jeans.

Smiling for no reason.

For every reason.

And crying out of necessity.

And other than on cue.

Used and worn.  Slightly dented.

Tired eyes and wrung out.

Yet still walking forward

And welcoming more.

Kindnesses unbidden extended.

And received.

With gratitude and dignity and without expectation.

The script abandoned.

Letting go and letting in.

The calendar more tool than symbol.

More convenience than edict.

The time in between.

The middle.