by Molly Frederick
With open hands, I wait. For no
Prolonged each moment, then the
And the next.
No one told me it would take so
Until it comes to me,
That this is
just a kind of reaching —
Like a daffodil tilting toward a
slow silent sweep of sunlight
While day progresses.
rich, and succulent.
All this waiting.
* * * * *
In a letter, Molly wrote this,
For me, writing poetry – which I’ve done for many decades – is about seeing what’s really there.
I look for places where the Universe steps through.
Then I work with words to recapture the experience, for myself and also for others. Nature is often the subject, and every answer leaves me with a question.
I find that fascinating.
(Copyright 2023 Molly Frederick)
The image that leads this post is by Dave M from Pixabay.