Waiting For Her To Come Home

Everything around me is still The soft lights ward off the cold My worried heart is unsettled Every minute makes me old Time seems to drag on and on Not sure I can take much more I’m waiting for my angel to walk in through that door There is nothing to do but wait, so I wonder about her day but what’s taking her so long? Did she somehow lose her way? I think about my visit My first time to see her place In my glimpse into her life, a weariness I can trace She flew away to this isle to try out her angel wings, and in following her dreams she untied the home spun strings “Our children are not our own.” Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see? My precious 18 year old, Will always belong to me! Oh yes, she may live elsewhere Have a family of her own, but she’s my little baby and in my eyes she hasn't grown I wait and wait and wait Please, God, let her be alright! I look out of the window at the blackness of the night I think of all those mothers who wait for their children dear, whose tired and aching arms long to hold their loved ones near The wait for them is fruitless Its end is a tragic woe, for death holds back their loved ones The "Wait of Pain" will not go My heart shares in their sorrow My soul weeps for their plight For though my daughter is late She’ll be coming home tonight! For Waiting Contest by James Rogers September 9, 2015 *Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.