A Time of Waiting

The moment comes when my sound senses
Warn me to keep the pot at a quiet simmer,
Conclude no rash decisions, enter into
No random friendships, check the runaway tongue
And fix my mind in a close caul of doubt —
Which is more difficult, maybe, than to face
Nightlong assaults of lurking furies.
The pool lies almost empty; I watch it nursed
By a thin stream. Such idle intervals
Are from waning moon to the new —
a moon always
Holds the cords of my heart. Then patience, hands:
Dabble your nerveless fingers in the shallows;
The time will come when she has need of them.