The Sunday Poem: Eves

Eves are potential: the pendulum at its farthest swing,
The wave as it curls, the indrawn breath, lowered lashes.
They accrete importance, become more the thing than the thing,
Surrounded by lights, by costumes, icons, belled sashes.

The days themselves are rushes, crashes, madness,
The ebb and flow of family, feasts, and fastness.

But eves — eves are frozen, out of time, still and somehow sad —
An endless moment of anticipation you had, but never have.