Waiting

“…Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines.” Rainer Maria Rilke never mind the aging of my face or thickening of my waist I have finally lived long enough to be young I dream I am willowy, graceful, with wings to fly singing an aria, laughing at the color-riot I fling before me no regrets remain, nothing taken back every day a buoyant sunrise the night a rich cabernet in a crystal stem chaos silenced by proof of lingering love waiting for nothing, as it all exists now, peeling vaporous layers of expectation and desire, loved enough to release the craving, exalt in the warmth the birds, the mountains, my songs and my poems gifts bestowed perhaps because I waited the wind lifts, clouds thread the sky I write, becoming young.