WAITING

 WAITING  By: Ed Yanson and Helen Sarita

In the mute leaping of pollination, 

I sought you in the mirror of spring. 

To get a glimpse of you together,

 blooming with dandelions in the lea of my gazing.

 Ever since you left the hive of our haunt, 

l wear the panic of bees. 

In the mirror, a disturbing sign of ghosting shaped the significance of your anima, but it does not inspire my expectation of your coming back. Uncertain thoughts invade my imagination. 

The innuendos of summer nights laid hemlock into my teacup, 

magnified the doubts in my mind and closed all the gateways of hope germinating in behind my storm. 

I will wait for the leafing embrace of spring from a distance, where coolness is water and colors are birds. In the rain, I will rinse myself of the ennui of waiting. For my inner pendulum has ceased its Animated rhythm of counting hopes and dreams, and my lotus has wilted in waiting. ed yanson

_edyanson

The dew of my corollas refreshen me in a daybreak 

while they relish and savor its pollination, where the 

cheerful bees have a significant role in their process

to produce the lovely and splendid blossoms.

I welcome the butterflies to enjoy the hues 

in the magnificent garden of my memories

like the charm of my pen waltzing in grace

on a quench blank canvas which was ready to 

digest the dense extract of my screaming thoughts.

I squint my eyes, visualizing if you were one of 

those bees that made aster and jasmine aromas 

tangled with the roses; it resembles the phoenix of me 

as a gardener of love and a queen of all the blossoms.

For sure this will proffer pleasure to your chantry

at it revives those cobwebs of yesterdays 

where you thought I was just a mere memory,

But the essence I possessed as the goddess of flowers that

bloom has the power to mend the aches of your long waiting.

I am here whispering to you in my gracious silence.

I am a reflection of those clusters of buds if only be taken care of, so well

I freeze those pains of yours and take away the stitches of your heart.

Helen Sarita