Branches wait
on orange leaves to fall
before welcoming green again.
Thunder holds its breath
for lightning to speak first.
The moon waits on dusk
to lift its pale face above the trees.
Seeds wait for rain—
a promise whispered,
but never guaranteed.
Even wings must wait
inside the hush of a cocoon.
So I—
I must wait too.
I wait at the station,
watching smoke curl
from trains that don’t bring you home.
I wait for a wedding dress,
still wrapped in its box.
I hem curtains by hand.
I boil tea leaves twice.
I count the war headlines
like rosary beads—
each one a prayer
that your time away
won’t grow longer.
The seasons pass through me—
autumns that forget to end,
springs that never dare begin.
And in a way,
waiting becomes
its own kind of war.
But I remain:
a garden unbloomed,
a promise paused.
I keep the door unlocked.
And when the train does come,
when boots hit the ground again,
I will rise like the branches,
welcoming green.