We aren't waiting for anything, not for some kind of an event when we open our refrigerator. Most of us know what we’ll find, like a recurring dream, a hazy tide of recollection, a fixed pattern, the light's fingers caressing our forehead, the lunging cower of love's duality, as if we’re enclosed in a cocoon of our own history, time, a mere distraction, not racing past or chattering or trembling when the light goes out. Deliberation’s thief, history, the vision before us, keeping our minute drained of concern, knowing what we’ll find within it when the little light comes on… © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)