I am sitting in the cold air
waiting for an inspired word.
The wind, blowing as it does,
in gusts, like breath,
fully manifested in its being.
Geese are flying overhead,
following the direction of their invisible path.
I remain. Deciding moments like this
can come and go so quickly if I do not simply sit.
Not wanting to escape, avoiding the pain of moments,
where art, like words, choose my heart to speak.
It has been quiet for a time,
when the air is comfortable and the time to listen passes
through an impatient mind.
There is no one to blame,
not myself or the wind.
The source is available and gracious in presence.
I must take more chances to be uncomfortable in my sitting.
When words become available
and willing to feel them as I so often fail to do.
So I will sit for as long as I can.