Waiting by the wayside, for angels and trumpets, all I have found is a feather, but, it is enough.
Let me sit here a while longer,
in the calm sunlight,
in the quiet wind,
watch the clouds come and go.
I will be as silent as a green lizard,
a smooth rock,
grass beneath the trees,
the taste of lemon in the air,
cinnamon in the red leaves.
The Frog Pond is full of frogs. They can be very noisy but they have nothing to say. They are waiting for the evening. They are waiting for rain. They are waiting for the fun to begin. They are waiting to turn into stones. They are waiting for the end of the world. They are waiting for the fall. Waiting for a love letter. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for a miracle. Waiting for a chance. Waiting for the last dance. Waiting to be declared the winner. Waiting for the martians to land. Waiting for the omnibus to arrive, for the carousel to start, for the ferris wheel to begin, for the day after tomorrow.
I am not waiting any more.