by Emily Gingrich

The haze of heaven whispers by,
And wingtips tilt to scrape the sky.
Who knew that man would ever fly
Halfway in between?

Orion stands to guard the moon,
Commander of a star platoon.
Polaris holds her northern tune
Above the in between.

Mirroring the stars, below,
Galaxies of home-lights glow.
Unnamed constellations grow
Below the in between.

A century has won the fight—
The ageless war for man in flight—
So we may feel the mad delight
Of halfway in between.

Bits of Emily Gingrich can be found in many places: stuffed in her kayak’s hatch, pacing at the front of her middle grade classroom, buried in the dirt along with zinnia seeds, sprinkled over the pages of her current manuscript, or wandering the Ontario hills that she calls home, but she wants all of herself to belong to the One who lets her live this wonderful life.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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