In English, we say: I’m waiting,
as though time were a tether,
and we the obedient hounds of its pull.
But in poetry, my love, we speak in the hush
between syllables, where even the echo learns restraint.
I am not waiting, I am watering the silence
between a prayer and its reply,
learning the language of stillness,
where promises are not broken
but blossomed in unseen gardens.
I sit beneath the fig tree of not-yet,
where the fruit is ripening in shadows,
and the wind sings psalms
in the patient voice of maybe.
The world says go on,
but I, I have learned to listen
to the rhythm of unopened doors,
to trace the outline of a vow not yet spoken
but trembling like light on the lip of dawn.
Do not mistake my stillness for stagnation,
this is the sacred art of holding,
of becoming the space
in which miracles root quietly.
Here, in the cradle of not-knowing,
where breath meets breathless longing,
I am not stalled, I am aligned
with the holy hush that lives
between a whispered yes
and the thunder of its unfolding.
