patience

I wanted to write a poem for her
about the green, white and red buildings,
about seeing a kookaburra
who wasn’t afraid of my movement
only my stillness,
about a picnic rug, a pillow
and a backful of winter sun
like warm lemongrass tea
steeping my spine,
about triangular bodies intersecting
and breathing shafts of light,
about laughing hysterically
at a joke only for me
(really…)
about terrible sleep,
and hiding my wallet in the light shade,
about the niggling hate, the whimpering
and all that shame,
about zazen in the late night
with a sky bleeding rain,
about walking the old magic
of the driveway here,
long ago and four hours for every step,
about flanks of green
on the body of the hill,
about mist, about moon,
about star-shaped leaves,
and that seated fellow, who crops up
everywhere around here.
I wanted to write a poem for her.
Oh well.
Sometimes one just has to wait.
Patience, anyway, is its own kind of poetry.