Like an old ox under yoke who pulls
Again, and again, until he cannot
Pull any longer; then stops, and waits
as if waiting were an art to be
savored, instead of endured like pain,
I’m frayed, worn thin from being;
From what I’ve been; from who I am.
I wait caught in quandary’s eddy,
Without knowing what I wait upon.
I linger over every trivial decision,
As if all time stood still and waited
For permission to take the tatters,
And transform into someone new.
I must move; yet I wait, afraid to move.
(April 16, 2017)