Waiting

The moon glows low,
old ivory hanging in the trees,
shining down the river
in a crisp
and cobalt evening.

Clouds loom on the horizon
as our passive words
circle round and round
what may be.

We turn each stone again,
rake through old leaves –
foraging for options,
contriving prudent actions
when all that can be done
is wait.

 

— Christine Rigden