Patien e and Her Foo

Poetry 84

Black fumes rise to shroud my mind. So I asked for your voice and I heard you: Wait.

Wait? Would you command a falling sparrow, be still? Ask of a hunted doe, patience? Was it false kindness which kept your hand from slaying hope? That mocking voice in my chest

but I dare not extinguish her myself, for though I rage, I know your sovereignty. Thus I still sing and obey and pray and wait.