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.