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Posts Tagged ‘waiting’

 

 

 

Pulling the long red radish bulbs

from the garden, I marvel

at their pinkness, rub off the dirt,

bite into the crisp white flesh.

There are few tastes that bite

just right this way—make the mouth

happy to be a mouth and it teaches me,

without trying, that sometimes

when we wait too long,

a thing turns bitter. But oh, get

the timing right, my god, it’s sweet.

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beneath the soil,

the paperwhites prepare

for tall and musky ecstasy—

the waiting, also an invitation

to admire, to say thank you

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I know that things just don’t grow if you don’t bless them with your patience.

            —First Aid Kit, Emmylou

 

 

There are gardens in me

where I have tried

to make things bloom

out of season—

how difficult it can be

to let a seed do

what a seed does

all on its own,

especially in a time

of drought when I fear

the seed may not grow at all

if I don’t help it

grow more quickly.

And so I let soil

be my teacher.

How perfectly

it waits, letting

the world feed it.

How easily it

partners with rain,

with sun, with time.

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One Game

 

 

 

silence

a Frisbee we toss

between heartbeats

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Wait until the necessary and everlasting overpowers you, until day and night avail themselves of your lips. 

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Essays and Lectures”

 

 

I believe in ripeness, the wisdom

of waiting. Here on my counter,

the melon sweetens and softens.

The peppers slowly turn from green

to red. The tomatoes become less

like stones and more like kisses.

Terrible to taste an early grape,

the way its sharp juice rucks

the soft lips. Terrible to eat

the berry before it’s earned

its blush. And still, the misery

of waiting—how eagerness

rises up in us, a surge of please,

a tide of want, a rush of now.

Yes, to the wait, the awful wait,

how this trial of patience

brings us closer to ourselves,

how it makes the future inevitable

ever that much sweeter.

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Last year’s wild roses

have not yet discovered

it’s spring—the brambles

are barren and barbed.

What else is there but

to trust that the green leaves

and petals will come? What

else but to stand in our

own barrenness and believe?

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Waiting

 

            November 8, 2016

 

 

When you see the clouds

and you know the gray

is the shade of gray

that ends in a mudslide,

and then comes the rain

you knew would come,

stiff rain and merciless.

But this is not about

the wall of mud that eventually

finds every room of your house.

This is about

the way you have plenty of time

to put on your boots

and grab your shovel

and your hat and your coat

and stand out in the rain

before there is any sign of mud

creeping down the hills,

that interval while the destruction

is still just an idea,

the inside of your home

still clean, still dry.

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6:15 a.m.

 

 

 

All night I waited for the sound of bells to wake me.

I waited so long I wondered if they had been rung

but I had not heard. I wondered if I had forgotten

 

what bells sounded like. I wondered if the ringer of bells

had overslept and I should go wake her or rise

and ring the bells myself. And when at last the bells

 

were swung and charged the air of the halls

with their bright brass song, I laughed out loud in the dark,

amazed I could believe I’d forgotten the sound of bells.

 

What else do I think I’ve forgotten that is so wholly present here?

Some sense of purpose? Some sense of communion?

Some understanding of what it means to love?

 

What if these things are clear, clear as the sound

of bells? Oh fool who waits and waits for something

to appear. Is it possible whatever your waiting for is here?

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in the night air
scent of rain
that does not fall—
sometimes in the kitchen
scent of tenderness

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The snow begins
then stops to fall.
In the alley, brown
tracks run against the white.

The gray folds through the air
and unfolds. Nothing
about this day seems
capable of settling in.

It is a like a woman
thinking about what
she wants. The blossoms
of her thoughts open

like roses in fast forward.
They wilt and dry in similar
fashion. They are out of season.
This does not stop them.

Sometimes we like to think
we are waiting. Waiting
for something marvelous to happen,
or waiting for an ache to disappear,

or waiting for gray to be
something other than gray.
And sometimes we see what
a gift it is, this indecisive day,

this watching imaginary blooms
that seem so real you can almost
smell the red perfume, almost.
Outside the window,

it is snowing again. No,
not snowing. But the gray
it has settled in and now
the dirty tracks look

like empty staves and anyone
listening might hear through the glass
how the birds don’t wait
to fill in the space with song.

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