waiting
in that in-between,
anticipating...wanting...drifting.
for 8 years, naught
but howling sun,
and scalding rains,
and staccato winds.
Yet,
mere pindrops
to the ferocious Wonder
resting within;
mere shadows
of what tempests
that once blew;
mere memories
of the fire
to come.
and a low rumble tickles these bones...
there
is
time
yet.
