I Slap My Wrist
We wait for news of the sale of our house,
our home. Weeks pass. Unsettled. Unable
to focus on anything else. All seems
temporary; provisional or not relevant.
I call to mind patients needing patience;
waiting for results. Not knowing. Tested.
Trust tested explores hope, rehearsing what ifs.
Whatever news comes, knowing brings relief.
Decisions can be made. Actions follow.
In writing I'm reflecting and learning.
It feels like a long vigil: attending;
depending on others. Waiting on God –
struck by those fleeing conflict or climate,
how trivial our testing. I slap my wrist.
Copyright © Lisle Ryder | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment