Bitter patience, counting moonlight beams
on fledging grass stems.
Endure for the law that presses heavy and cold
against your chest.
Endure because there is no leaving
only traveling on.
Weapons put away, dressing
strictly for good form.
The planets rock back and forth,
bump against each other, but like us, are bonded,
unalterably glued to their personal constellations.
Irrational hope is the shadow I have,
the silent zone of my cortex that defeats reality, yet below
the storm gathers and changes course for no one.
What used to be roots are now tossed away, ripped
on the ridges of sidewalks like bubble gum wrappers.
Storm that has no subliminal meaning, is only storm,
gun shots in the wind. Patience.
Wait for the unwanted guest to go. Wait for your life
to mature finally into what you wish it would be.
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
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