I have been waiting here, it seems like years.
The tides rise and fall. Old Luna, battered
and pale, barely shines for me at all.
The house is tired now and moans
to lay down its walls like limbs, like fallen
logs across a steam.
What are you waiting for? she cries.
For love, I say. For people to stay
or the courage of one oak on a hill
in tall grass, or the strength to give up.
Waiting is easier.
The house is aligned with the stars
where they’ve fallen, somewhere
in the east. Tonight, there is half a moon
to give me hope. I look up and watch,
waiting for these muses to decide.
J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed
“The function of the imagination is not to make strange things settled, so much as to make settled things strange.”– G.K. Chesterton