growing heat.

the Father says wait.
i’m not always sure what i’m waiting for,
but i wait.
feel the temperature change and again. 67…72…78.
fan blades revolvolvolving. around a stoic place. just to ruffle my face.
pink in the growing warmth and ache. 82….86..88.
my skin reaches just to kiss the feet of the breeze. like my thirsty soul. sometimes waiting is learning what you need.
funny thing about God. he has not stuck me in a yellow plastic chair midst muzak seeping into my hair and sogging up my synapses. he’s placed me in gentle shafts of sunrain.
soft places for folding and tucking my legs. and a calming gait for walking.
it’s that pulsing, wet thing that somehow makes feeling that’s suddenly prone to sobbing.
rushing to his steady arms. feeling naught but throbbing.
if it weren’t for that changeable, rushing, wanting muscle….waiting would not sound so daunting.
if not for it’s weeping. and the growing heat. 95…97….98.


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