I Must Wait, and Wait

​I must wait, and wait,
When will the spirit drop
On me like a bag of sand,
And I’ll produce a crop

Of new fruits, I’ll
Contemplate, I’ll think,
I’ll sing, my light
Is in the clink.

Why, from the cave
Halfway up the cliff,
The soul is singing
Its ongoing riff,

She’s wearing
Colorful clothes
That look good in action
Or happy repose,

She has an extensive
View, a sunshade,
An afternoon breeze,
An orangeade.

How can I scramble up
To meet her, to
See if not her, 
Her steps, pursue

The whoosh of wings,
To hear her
Speech, to smell
Her lavender?

Because it is not
At this or that
Hour, wearing
This or that hat,

That she is creating
Wisdom and thought,
Song and speech,
Swift or taut,

But it’s all the time
That rivers, that streams,
Of milk and honey
Of unceasing dreams

Are flowing, are talking,
Are shining, are singing,
From an infinite source
Their echoes ringing.