Waiting Poem by Howard Pipe

A letter on the mat appears, unexpected,
a moment in isolation.
No waiting, no slow burn like a candle wick,
no drip drip from a kitchen tap.

The beating heart of the clock face ticks silent;
time stretches elastic like a pendulum,
moves fast and slow;
a moment full, an idle wait empty.

Like waiting for news, or a meeting;
a cold shiver and a dry throat,
time seeps slowly, sifting sand in an hourglass;
waiting for the rain to stop, waiting for a letter.