When I go out in the dawn or dusk
and the sky’s all feathered with palest musk
and the night’s not yet or not yet done
I think of all that’s yet to come
the vast wide sky with portent seeming
of a hand that’s weaving this in-betweening
When I go down beside the shore
see the sand all scribbled with ancient lore
know the patterns of love that marked this day
will tomorrow be written another way
by a hand that’s weaving
this in-betweening
