It’s waiting hurts the most. Ask me <br />To wait and I will, being me, agree <br /> <br />To wait. Complaisant I, I let <br />My warp lie waiting knowing thread will fret, <br /> <br />The woof forgetting where to thread, <br />My tapestry Penelope’d, unspread, <br /> <br />Or oils for the painting dry, <br />The brush bewildered, canvassing a why <br /> <br />Unanswered, or my poem’s line <br />The first unseconded, or by design <br /> <br />The novel of my life part two, <br />Avoiding questions twin-like: “You are who? ” <br /> <br />I waking in the night, when wakes <br />Awaiting that bright morning, find the aches <br /> <br />Are gone, and grand impatience gears <br />And rises, all accomplished in arrears.<br /><br />Linda Hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waiting-511/
