In-Between

Were life, oh Light, set as a poem— a sonnet, say, of moments born with glory in their brightness seen not over lives, but in-between: Could such moments (once they’re cast) burn bright enough o’er life to last? (Am I ever bound to seek not precious life, but in-between)? ‘I’ll wait,’ says I, ‘I’ll wait ‘till then!’ ...’till faited stars align again, and (if need be) e’vn grains of sand find place ‘just so,’ (as if ‘by hand’)! But comes instead another view (as steady-sure as morning, new): ‘Precious seconds hurry past, for none was ever meant to last; spend each one the best you can—it cannot / will not come again.‘ Perhaps save for the precious few that come to life in passing— found there ‘just so’ to brightly gleam forever, in the in-between.