sometimes, waiting is like death

you ask, "What about..." and "Will you" and "Can we"
and I say, "I'm not sure" or "Maybe later" or "Not yet"
and there are other words like "musing"
or "marinating" or "mulling it over"
which I will imbue with great meaning
referring to my strident, exacting belief
in the infinite relationship between time and certainty.

but I could stand there for hours, for years,
peering at the wide, terrifying, impossibly possible blue,
my feet closer than inches to the crumbling, gravely edge,
and not go anywhere.

sometimes waiting is like death
like lost and seizure and nothingness
like shapeless brambles catching you at the knees.
I will say I do not want this and yet something of
the thorny clutch draws my eyes sharply to the earth,
fascinates me with the maze of roots underfoot,
angles my whole body down low to the ground
until my palms are flat against the dirt and I have nearly
forgotten about what lay ahead, past this vigorous, teeming forest.

how does a deer allow herself the benefit of the doubt
to traverse the hillside toward the ripe garden down below?
how does she manage the road and its violence?
what gentle hand guides her through this steely passage,
lifts her gaze beyond the safe acreage of home?
what am I hungry for? what bright, bold wind
will I trust for my flight?