She bides her time.
The little life inside her
Anticipates the rolling ride of life.
He dances for yet unknown joys.
He feigns escape in jest,
And prods your hand,
And kicks at unseen strife.
She bides her time,
My love, she bides her time.
She watches from the windows,
And as the windows cry their tears
And weeks and months turn into rain,
She takes her sacrifices
Gathers up her fears:
Whatever’s lost will be regained.
She gathers all her sacrifices
And wraps them up in string
And now they’re many little parcels
To store until the spring arrives
When she emerges,
Squinting in the sun
And finds her youth is still alive
To share the strings undone.
That time will come.
And maybe then, the world now so uncaring
Those men are born of Goddesses or Queens.
Or at the very least of patience,
Love and dedication,
And gently nurtured dreams.
– o –
I say “he” but I’m not saying it’s a he. I don’t know, is the truth.