A poem about Anticipation

The Spring

It means much more than waiting,

waiting for minutes and days
that seem like years and millenia.
More than weeks that weaken one with waiting,
wearing and wearying petrifying bones.
Time bombards well-bolstered buildings,
roofs rickety upon pillars of patience,
but shifting temporal Saharas--
all that grit grinding through the glass--
that isn’t all we mean.

Beneath, an Artesian ocean

ripples, sloshes, bubbles up and beckons.
Seeping up through dry-as-dust landscapes,
filling up water-table wastelands,
finding latent seeds and spores to drink it in,
the unresting reservoir brings life to dead waiting.

Celebration comes at lazy clocks’ chiming,
travelers return as soon as sojourns subside...
victims are vindicated when wheels of justice jar to a halt,
and lost pets and lost souls all reach the welcome mat.
In short...in long...interminal...waiting...
is not in vain. Not when promises can be trusted.
Not when a King of Love is on His throne.

Not when there is Hope.

MNA

3.14.14