The Wait

Each time has a special place And every such place has its time. When nature seethes with strangeness Where the mind in exquisite isolation halts itself and listens For the rumblings of a something large and not easily defined - Stop! Softly now, feel how close it is. Something's coming, be assured, that can't be held in words, Imprisoned by our comprehension. Nothing to do now but wait and see... Now here we stand at the conjunction Milling about and ignoring ourselves Like so many motes of dust hanging before a bright windowpane Illumined by the sharp cold light of dusk, gathering and sliding Across that vast empty horizon just beyond And still we wonder deep down How best to pass these years or moments Until we turn to look on our creations, Those children of our thoughts, Face to face, without defenses There's a beast in need of killing here Of that no one doubts But the name of the thing... There's the rub. What is it makes a body Inured to the blood and fire The pain and rage The beauty and the folly Of the Age it helped engender Start And tremble at the smallest of things The least of the pities and frail sorrowful occurances With which this world is etched and circumscribed? Is it the breath of conscience Or the sharper inspiration of fear? Perhaps the two conspire within us Contending for possession Of our human souls, at once so noble and so abject, The fitting residence for violent emotion. Ask me not for the answer; I too join in the dance of confusion. The beast is still there, and it's ours It needs to die before the dawn can come, Bringing us its meanings and its hopes Seeming so dim and distant But coming nonetheless. Remember now, it's a long, long way we've come from yesterday Back when we huddled and wondered in our vague, childish way From where we had come and to where we must go What we need search and what we could know And even then we affirmed, and some as loudly denied We must stand firm against the onrushing tide Of expectation and labor come 'round to fruition Bearing down the completion of our lonely mission. So on we wait. The flutterings of anticipation pass so slow and fine Felt at most as a tiny unease Slow spreading ripples in a quiet clear stream, Or the light breeze kissing the face Of the heavily sedated patient, Still there with us always, Silent and vital as our heartbeats. Look sharp now That beast is still there, And it's ours, Formlessly waiting like smoke in a mirror.