I am waiting for that moment,
when life sets again, after melting,
like
jelly, liquefied, unstable,
sloshing at the edges with every
movement of the heart, rippling
with every shudder of mind,
spilling in slow slide with each
tipping of Soul, as it moves
against the sides of Self, as it
is contained within the bowl
of being, shimmering, clear
and resonating with potential,
which requires only that slow
congealing from outside, into
the expectant centre as all
firms into something which
is sure, steady, moving only
barely with the touch of
hesitant fingers of feeling;
no longer without form, and
unreliable; no longer unable
to hold a certain shape, no
matter how often it is rudely
knocked - at last confirmed.
II.
Days mark time for me in
bitter expectation, knocking
on the door of waiting, which
desperation has surely locked,
as lingering minutes stand,
in line, ready to be called,
but hearing only silence,
that hanging in a universe
of possibility, breathing
songs choked of potential,
lying in deceitful wait as
glittered, bitter hoping,
quiescent in remission of
what might be, and all that
I had wished; dormant is
my heart, held in latent
intermission as futures
hide abeyant, now that you
are gone and love huddles
in the recess of my being -
time is now postponed
and the angels counsel
patience and acceptance,
