Waiting

beyond the door of our house

I sit in the shade

on my right a small table,

a bottle of water, a notebook,

a book of poetry, a book of prayers

bright green moss cushions my feet

birds call from the woods

the Tourettes hum of distant traffic

palms turned skyward

I’m waiting for healing to descend

so I may cradle rain in my hands

when it comes

7-23-25