Waiting Poem by Linda Hepner

It’s waiting hurts the most. Ask me
To wait and I will, being me, agree

To wait. Complaisant I, I let
My warp lie waiting knowing thread will fret,

The woof forgetting where to thread,
My tapestry Penelope’d, unspread,

Or oils for the painting dry,
The brush bewildered, canvassing a why

Unanswered, or my poem’s line
The first unseconded, or by design

The novel of my life part two,
Avoiding questions twin-like: “You are who? ”

I waking in the night, when wakes
Awaiting that bright morning, find the aches

Are gone, and grand impatience gears
And rises, all accomplished in arrears.