From Jane Kenyon’s Waiting:
. . .And she will wait. Life is odd. . .
I too am waiting, though if you asked
what for, I wouldn’t know what to say.
What am I waiting for?
Besides the kettle to boil
so I can make myself a cup of that Wild
Sweet Orange tea we both like so much,
the UPS truck, Hannah’s bus,
for spring to come to the tangled trees
and vast fields of brown that look so much
I know I’m waiting for our trip to Italy
where we will feast on beautiful food and
ancient works of art painted on canvas and ceilings,
and drink as many perfect wines as we can
find, and afford; and where we will walk on sun-bleached
paths and look at water gleaming
like a smoothed out piece of tin foil,
or watch the beautiful people on their
passieggiata speaking in their beautiful tongue.
But what else?
For our children to grow and find their way,
and for a world that knows what I mean by
what I say and do rather than the errant
expressions that appear on my face;
for the perfect job, the perfect poem, the perfect
silver happiness one reads about in books?
Ah, there’s the whistle of the kettle.
That’s one thing, then.