
—
I’m here, and I’m waiting again
(Another will suffer the pain).
But as that’s occurring – away –
My minutes are whittled – my day
Is shortened, restricted. My view:
An office, a worker, or two.
Life’s filled with these moments we wait
Like horses to start at a gate.
A woman will wait for a child
Nine months, though it’s driving her wild.
The check’s in the mail – will it come?
Impatient, our fingers may drum.
I’m sitting here thinking of this,
And waiting is not far from bliss.
I’m turning these thoughts in my mind
To verses some others may find.
Thus, sweet balm of peace fills my brain
Like sounds and the smell of the rain.
Occurring to me is this thought:
Since waiting is often, we ought
Put weight in our waiting so space
Won’t sit on, like shadows, our face.
If silver, or if it is gold,
The wait will shine forth forty fold.
Our living itself is a wait,
For death, we hope distant in date.
And what with our lives will we do
While days whittle down till we’re through?
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photo by Robert Proksa at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nj98RMe/Clock+01
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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
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