In the middle of the path,

the waxing moon is in its crescent shape; 

I will see it many more times

and have seen it many times before

as the days come and go 

like waves upon the shore. 

In the middle of the path,

the memories stand like iron stones—

giant upon the shoreline. 

The salt, like a million searching 

thoughts, infinitely scrapes 

towards oblivion and bewilderment.

Here we wander, 

in the sunlight,  

and in the moonlight, 

and in the starlight, 

as the forever whispers wander windward 

from the end of time to the start of time.

And here our paths have crossed 

and here our paths have mingled 

and here our paths meant something 

more than random occurrence.

Here, our paths have meant 

creation and light and love,

and all other infinities nameless. 

Here, though the path lingers eternally, 

we have made the difference 

in the sunlight, and 

in the fluorescent buzzing of bulbs, 

and in the laughter of 

teachers and students

and friends.

The path was built to be walked upon, 

time was made to be spent, 

the shoreline was made to be crashed upon. 

In the middle of the path,

as the moon rises, and the sun falls, 

in the gray haze of twilight—

in between the tomorrow and the yesterday―

we will always be there, 

philosophizing and pontificating 

on who we will become, 

who we have been, 

and what this all means. 

But as certain as the sun rises 

and the moon gleams―

it has meant everything,

to walk here together,

in the middle 

of the path.