Waiting

It seems lonely here,
On the edge of anticipation. 
It seems empty here,
Just before the dawn. 
It seems silent here,
Before tomorrow happens.

Here isn’t there, 
Nor is ‘now’ the place I intended to be. 
“Embrace the season,” I’m told,
But the embrace isn’t mine. 
I’m caught in the grip of winter.

I dream of warmer days,
With the breeze carrying scents of joy,
Or the sounds of conversations
I’ve only rehearsed in my mind.

But for now the mist still sits in the valley,
The only hope of warmth is the hearth,
The bulbs are buried dormant,
And the days are short and dark.

But the One who shaped the Summer
Has made the Winter too;
His hands shake the tree of leaves
And pull new shoots from the ground.

And the place that seems to be lonely,
Is the place we find our closest companion.
And maybe, like winter, 
The waiting has its purpose too.