more familiar
with the betweens
than with the origins
and destinations
and that, I suppose,
is the nature
of the journey we take –
a conglomeration
of moments framed
by first and last breaths,
by the hopeful fogs
of tomorrow’s mornings
and the dry silences
of last year’s gardens
© Sarah Whiteley
I have now
this exhalation
of yesterday’s tomorrows
all these heres
that add up to then
when we were breathing out
what has long since
wound its way
into green creases
of twining leaves
I have lined them up
just here
like blue-tinted jars
of summer plums
on quiet shelves
where I can tick them off
fingertip on glass
one – the rain
two – remember?
three – long months
and four – moons later
and five rows more
than I can count
this is how
I preserve them
tight-capped jars
of sun and fruit
that I can touch
on winter days
when then is far
and now lies dying
for then
© Sarah Whiteley
you speak
of the ardor of us
as if it still breathed
pulsed between us
lighthouse guide
of our nights
our flighty days
but it’s yesterday’s sighs
then that quivers
to the thready
beats of time passing
when my fingers
lent yours
delightful animation
you speak
of the soul of us
as if we were still
inseparable
as if time and distance
had not piled
against us
diluting us from then,
from when,
from now
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 