John Anderson Poet Quatern

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The Art of Wilt and Wait

When summer's heat cries out for rain,
Flowers bow beneath the strain.
Yet deep below, the roots still keep,
Revival stirring in deep sleep.

Wilt is not a finale farewell,
Nor the tolling of a death knell;
The earth remembers every seed,
And yearns to grant what plants need.

Saudade drifts through twilight air,
For things once loved—or never there.
A sweet ache woven through the heart,
When hope and longing dwell apart.

The rose may mourn the vanished rain,
Bow in submission to drought's domain;
Yet dawn returns with silver grace,
When dewdrops fall on an uplifted face.

So when the soul begins to bend,
When weary days seem without end,
Recall the bloom that learned its art—
To wilt, to wait, and mend the heart.

It is the art of wilt and wait,
By which flowers haunt at the gate,
Knowing their wilt and wane,
Will call the gardener, back again.

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