“The Space Between the White”
To exist in the space between the white is to wait.
Filled with the spiked, the gnarled, the brittle, and the bent,
It persists in tired anticipation among waves that ripple
Between patience and ambition.
Too slow to satisfy the want,
Too unjust to gratify the deserved.
Then, when the warmth of the sun softens its edges,
Still waiting. White again.
Winter’s promise, a plague of time
In the eve of a new season, the space is ever shifting.
To be brittle is to risk breaking,
To bend is to awaken to an uncertain dawn.
This emergence, scarred with winter’s blast
Ever the more fragile than year’s past.
A rush to belong, to be among.
Slowly it opens, still waiting.
A violent fury to heal, to renew, and reclaim,
The roots of a warped and uncommon place
In the space between the white.