They have been kept waiting

I should be proud but I haven’t done it yet. There are snippets of it though, hidden in cyan blue seas teeming with dolphins. Pieces of it are littered across technicolor screens, just waiting for me.

I’m walking towards it, with its grains hard and fine beneath my feet. Slight traces of it are even drifting in yacht white on the hazy edges of the horizon.

My friend, bits of it are everywhere like gold dust screaming betwixt the trees that made the doors that Covid shut. Segments are lodged, deep within the panes, waiting oh so effusively for that oft elusive touch.

I should be proud. But there is no just reward. The glorious sound of rain on tin roofs in the black velvet of night must fold in upon itself, implode, be sound less. The smell of tar, blubbering on hot roads after a twinkling of rain must cease and be still until it arches back into nothingness. Trumpet leaves must not turn in the face of the fierce wind, the night jasmine must not ache into the thicket and rivers must desist from their gurglings. For they have been kept waiting and I just haven’t done it. Yet!