The Things I Wait For on a Cold Wintry Morning.

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

 

The Things I Wait For on a Cold Wintry Morning

and the things i wait for are the things
that would come,
the wait isn’t long
we can hold it close
or let waiting go,
but on this cold, wintry morning,
the wait is a tickle, a snug space
it does not agitate,

and so i play with it

waiting for my ginger tea to boil
waiting for the small kerosene heater to hum
for the blast of warmth to dance with my face

waiting for either snow or spring to make itself known
waiting for a small headache to go away

waiting for wildly restless thoughts that came, to go
for ancient fears to dissipate like the scattered dust of childhood
waiting for the future I’m not sure I even knew how to dream of

waiting for the next perfect coffee mug
for the book that will draw me into its pages forever
so that i may never return,
waiting for time to slow down enough to kiss it and say thank you
waiting for love to take yet another turn

waiting for the lotus flower to unfurl me
for my journal to tell me the truth of who i am
waiting for the old photos to fade and the new ones to fall into the ether
waiting to sit by a campfire and hear other people’s stories until the end of time

waiting to hear more from all the elders
waiting to recognize my own touch
to see the face of the world-body in front of me smiling
and the angels to drop down through the top of my head

waiting for the bird who will be large and kind enough to sweep me away
and for the park bench i’ve come to know, to welcome me with a song
waiting to embody

waiting for no more waits, because i have arrived,

with you, this frosted morning,
we are here

where we have always been.

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