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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.

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