I’ve known the takes of winter — the last leaves;
The cold, brittle branches bare in the wind,
Creaking above the grounded yesterdays.
My bark sings to charm that residue within,
Waiting to bloom old limbs once more to love;
That next love affair that wakens us new,
Bold past The Wait, to fly again the dove
That frees us to passageways bathed in dew.
My Wait persists past all pollenations;
Scenting the end that waits in some tomorrow’s
Take of age, page-by-page, to summations
Of waitings . . .towards ever-waiting sorrows.
Strange magic, waiting some storm that breaks the limb,
And I can’t wait to keep climbing limb-to-limb.
[ The WE of The Wait in Auguries(1917) became the I of The Wait two years later.