A warm afternoon brought out daffodils and pretty bare-legged girls in sun dresses and memories of younger, friskier days.
I’ve been editing my novel, Venus Rising and ideas for poems keep popping up. This one is called Waiting.
You wait and see he said.
Only fools wait his mother scolded, and they never see.
You’ll see I’m right. I’ve been right before and I’ll be right again. The moon is only half. Wait until it’s full if that’s all it takes. She’ll be here. Wait and see.
A son likes to vex his mother the older woman complained. She’s left and she is gone. Once the bird leaves the nest…
She’s not a bird and this house is not a nest. She’ll return. I can be as patient as the waxing moon. It waits as I do.
What’s the moon waiting for his mother wanted to know.
Its other half.
In a past post, I said I’m not much of a poetry guy; but damn it, another one popped into my head. So here it is.
Sixteen dreams not in slumbering ether, but by waking day, unlocking restless possibility.
While insects toil to tear youth’s tender root,
its fancy leafs beyond their barren field.
And in the glare of noon, it glories, and blossoming there,