When hope was sealed in its integument
Day of dark gestation,
Slipping quietly between the drama of a Friday
And the glory of a Sunday.
Rest, pause, muted time-beat,
Symbol of so many of our days
Wherein we grow invisibly,
Wherein we only climb and do not know it.
Day torn between the grasping hands
Of the past and the future.
Aerial hollow nestling between the two flaming wings
Of a sunset and a sunrise.
Edith Lovejoy Pierce