She’s in an in-between world
living an in-between life –
between childbirth and empty nest
between dirty dishes and clean
pressing buttons of the washing machine.
There she is in the evening
between days, old and new
wondering how she got there,
or how fast time flew
and still got nowhere
though she chased each second each hour
waiting for the next cascade of tears
or the ringing of laughter.
In her in-between world
there’s no savoring the now
it’s always moving, always turning
toward heaven or hell.
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