Do plants wait to grow and 
Do flowers wait to bloom?
Do leaves wait for the breeze
To get their workout?
Do rains wait for the clouds
To open their gates?
Does the fetus wait for the mother
To be ready?
I wonder about this Watchmaker,
Never derided as a clock-watcher
Who has coded this cycle
To let things happen
As they would, when they should.

It is such a human thing
To wait for the stars to align
To be wedded to time
As if there is a right time.
That we can force the pace
Of the inexorable movement
Or deliver in six what takes nine
Or time to perfection
Through a C-section
Herald the opportune moment
That seers foretold.
Or freeze the instant
In a photo moment.

Waiting is a strange thing
Time doesn’t ‘wait’; It moves on
In our scheme of things
When we move to encounter life
We move with the times
When we passively wait
Fate and accident knock on the gate
Time acquires the quality we propagate
To suggest that we
Waited too long, or
Missed the bus
Is patronizing, most of all
As if one knew Time’s schedule
When it is a mere statement
After the fact.

Is Waiting, about what is to come
Or what should have been here but
Lost its way
Or just the recognition
That I am frozen
Insulating self
From what might be
Fearing the worst
Waiting
For all good things to come
My way.
While withholding silent accusation
Of you,
Of something out of sync
With my expectation.

The man facing the gallows too waits
In isolation
With thoughts perhaps of
A life lived
Of dreams unfulfilled
Of hurts and grievances
Received and rendered
Called vengeful and diabolic
Sometimes also hailed 
As honourable or heroic?
Is the waiting
in hope?
Of a swift end?
Does hope die
Before a man dies?
Does time matter then?
If not
Wherefrom does waiting arise?


Image: "Waiting" (CC BY 2.0) by benmacaskill, via Flickr.