The song of waiting

the song of waiting starts low with a standstill
it has not departed the lips of its singer
it has not yet arrived, yet its forming down the throat of a songbird

a chain of paper decoration,
growing slowly out of dust-
into arrangements not found, untouched

Chained, we are to the tune that escapes

repeating onto our heads like drumming

it is one we must bear-

like a state, unchanging
by features of the harsh weather
and the ticketing of faces on the morning gates

A transit of solo passengers,
and desolation in islands, remote
it is a long pause

cut for its own purposes,
we cannot understand the need
for snow to bask in the seconds

from points of starts to
points of end
we move yet

the song of waiting is loud
audible to those who expect
time to bounce back, like a boomerang.