Somehow, I have grown accustomed to the hour before
the hour—the gradual uncoiling of light, the soft sound
of my breath deliberately rehearsing its gospel of belief.
Each sunrise, I set a place for a visitor who never arrives.
The chair gathers dust but holds its shape of welcome.
Some days I think I witness movement at the periphery
of the field—a ripple of shadow, the rumor of footsteps.
I stand, brush off my knees, and start to utter the perfect
first word—and then nothing. Only the wind threading
itself through a needle of absence. People say waiting
can evolve into a form of faith, but I see it as a mirror:
what we expect returns our reflection. The longer I sit,
the more I begin to resemble the thing I await. If tomorrow
arrives, and I still rise, perhaps I will name this persistence
holy—or foolish. Maybe those words mean the same thing
in some dead language, now resurrected. And if the door
should open, if a voice should answer my vigil—I may not
even move. The waiting itself has now become the guest.
