Waiting. I’m Waiting Here.

As I sit in the morning, watching outside, I see the

frost; I see rooves frozen white,

i’m thinking that I’m waiting for the next big hit, a jolt of passion.

It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, nor

Like i’m innured to the feeling of it.

It’s more like it’s waiting for me to  do  something?

What is it waiting for me to  do? A kindness? A generosity? thoughtful prayer?

I’ve plenty of those, but which  to  choose. The one on the right,

or the one on the left?  The red one or the blue one?

Does it matter if I’ve used it before? Can I use it again, or

must i create a new thing to do? Something I’ve hidden deep

inside to keep only for myself, privately?

A junco feeds on the patio, hopping and pecking for morning brunch,

I see it out my sliding glass doors in the cold, pecking at the concrete.

It must be looking to, but not waiting for it to come to her.

I best get hopping, pecking, moving on with my life, 

so that I can find it too.

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