I take orders from nothing
but those whispers in the wind that say this.|
And the source of my suffering
is to search for those whispers with no wind at all.
Waiting seems to have a voice of its own.
‘You are in-between costumes,’ it tells me,’in this glorious play of life.’
I’m bare before the bedrock.
Wings to the waves.
Heart to the hearth.
There is nothing to wear.
You must wait for the silk from the seamstress in the sky.
Don’t you know? Hurried hands make a hurricane.
In the meantime,
like a child in the waiting room,
You must…

play.