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  • Writer's pictureIlana Newman

Almost Times

Around me I watch as the almost days fly

Watching the clouds as they fall past, cluttering

The ground with miniature puddles. It

Peppers my face with wet freckles and fills

my orifices with a moistness like

The apparitions of children that almost

Appear with their skipping ropes, signaling

A time for us to start to hope

For better times. Waiting for the almost

Leaves to unfurl. Wanting for the fires

Of summer to burn away the cold that

Comes from the absence of cover, leaving

Me bare and intently exposed to the

Eyes hovering over my branching body.

The millions of stars that count the almost nights

I lay under the hopeless blue skies.

Time does not consist of ultimatums

It’s a series of inconsistencies

Almost falling farther into the hole

Dug by trying roots, flailing their way to

Depths unheard of by hell, while I not quite

Feel the twisted thoughts that tumble into

My night. They leave me crawling in desperation

For the sky, away from the wanting hands

That clutch at my toes, just almost out

Of reach of their destination nowhere.

It’s the almost clearing, cleaning perfectly

A place for impatient roots longing to

Secure lost limbs, which float under this bridge

Into the dim anticipation of

These almost times.

Like dying all those nights for someone

To lie their way back into my life.

To give me strength to climb to the sunny

Possibilities of love. The perhaps

Of supporting eternity of lives,

To touch the roots of thousands when only

One can fly. To flourish in showers

Of niceties without humiliation.

To prosper in a time without odds

But I see an almost defeat, for what

Are the chances of survival to a

Sapling that cannot find her roots in

One place. All I can do is raise my head

To the deep empyrean, lying here

In these almost times watching the flowers

Of perseverance anchored safely with

Reluctant glances towards the sky above.

I know now that it is almost time to

Move on.

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