Some days seem empty
with the waiting.
no one is home.
A spring walk on the marsh
looking not for what I can see,
but what is waiting for me.
So I sit and watch, my seat a twisted log by the river.
A dog barks, geese call, dried leaves tumble,
and all around me brushstrokes of wheat quiver.
There’s a way that the sunlight falls upon
the endurance of grass in early spring.
A way that breathes life into its lifelessness,
while the wind breathes music into its silence.
Yes. Isn’t it gloriously so?
And don’t our very hearts hope upon this thing?
That after the death, after the wait,
there comes the life, the light?