Like praying for the weather-cogs
to grind to fine;
like waiting for the tide to clunk itself
from low to high;
or watching for an eclipse of the moon
to shunt into place:
this insane preoccupation with waiting for a sign
to emerge from the clumsy mechanics of the cosmos-
(a word, an inflexion, a plan)...

But, I may as well stand beside that tree,
waiting for green fruit to cook to ripe;
position myself in the front yard watching
the mountain, and stay until the clouds shift
and leave it painted white...
I may as well hover over the tiny green spikes
of snow-drops until they should twist skyward,
pricking out of the cold winter ground
like tiny screws.

I may as well wait, unhurried,
while the longed-for, long-awaited
laboriously-created event of your desire
lumbers, creaks and finally cements
in my direction.