Waiting and walking and wandering,
either way you slice it,
I’m here waiting for the way to be clear,
striving to make the conscious decision
that the door I can’t see, still, is open.
I’m here walking into and out of places,
yearning to connect with the lives of the dead,
or at best, the barely living.
I’m here wandering, wondering if I am in exile,
but I have no soil to plant a garden or child to give in marriage,
so I will be here, loving, (or at best, striving to love).