A Day’s Wait, and More

Waiting for you,
like the wait of an unattended matchbox
in the bathroom stand,
getting drenched with every shower,
never to be picked,
never to be struck;
the matchsticks still intact
inside.

Waiting for you,
like the dry sink,
waits on the bathroom floor,
awaits another trail of water,
dripping from your body,
carrying the taste of nectar
from a flower
which only blooms
on a certain twilight
in spring.

Waiting for you,
like a bear cub’s wait
for his mother,
in the dark, moist den,
somewhere in the hills.
It’s raining –
the rain gods are in for a swim –
and the mother bear
can’t kiss the slippery cliffs,
with the roughness
of her feet.

Waiting for you,
like a freshly knit sweater
waiting for a young one
never to return from his sleep
in the garden graveyard
where he was buried
five months ago –
five months old.

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