Waiting: A poem

The chime of a wineglass
a flask, a door chain —
grain nodding its head
fed by slow sun and wind —
sin is it to shout
without: the stifling wait?

Gate silent, latched —
I hatched a plan to hear,
cheer the initiating creak —
seek the first sight of
loved ones — oh echoing heart!

Start at a sound, what …
what, what if … a current subtle
rustling — but only the breeze
seizing worn shutters,
a mutter to chilling fate.

Wait! Wait! The lot of
love, of woman and widow —
slow fruiting of the pregnant —
a stagnant lake slapping the bank.
And then: thanks. And thanks. And thanks.


About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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