Through the long, barren winter
I waited...wearied in the waiting,
truth be told, trying to believe
the promised green
would come again.
And flowers. And warblers'
song.
I bent over woodland floor
and garden beds, nudging aside
last year's leaves and stalks,
probing for the evidence
that was supposed to
be there.
And the day came that I rejoiced,
was giddy, in fact, at the all but invisible
new shoots, seen only by those
whose patience is wearing
thin. And I thought I
was content.
This morning I walked the woodland
realizing that my longing is not
assuaged, after all.
Dwarf ginseng, trout-lilies
and spring beauties abound,
all in bud, but none open.
The brown-thrasher has begun
his glad singing, but I
hear no warblers.
I am still
waiting.
And yet, the promise unfolds in
its own time.
Between hope and surety,
between wanting and waiting,
between desire and fulfillment,
in the mystery of this moment
I am embraced. It is
enough.
Now and not yet.
