There are different kinds of waiting.
There is the waiting for the fall
of the last leaf,
Heralding the stark cold of winter
With its onset of despair
That Spring may never come.
There is the waiting which feels
More an empty womb
of disappointed expectation:
Barren lost aspirations:
A waiting born of sad resignation
And tattered dreams.
But there is advent waiting:
A waiting where conception
May be unseen:
The formation of hope
Yet unsighted
But the reality more compelling
Than anything yet glimpsed.
Poem by Jeannie Kendall, reproduced with permission
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