Middle Age

Every day of late I close my eyes
and reach across the inner dark these phantom
hands as though they fumbled for a lantern
on either side of where the moment lies.

A lantern I am yet to grasp; though now
and then I think I feel a fluttering
of mothwings at my fingers, and hope the thing
can find itself, reveal a firefly’s glow.

Until then I am poised—I hold my breath
when mysteries approach, trust in their aim.
Crosswise, I genuflect to father time
with one hand at my birth—one at my death.