As you wait for floating
islands to salvage the little lake
sandwiched between an interstate
and a parkway. As you wait

for the day
to mature enough to collect

larch cones in the north garden
before it snows. As you wait
for salt
from the closest marsh

to thicken. As you wait to see
the occasional island

lose its independence
again. And for the coffee
to kick in and lead you
to the secret drawbridge

covering the breach
till next time. As you wait

for the lighthouse keeper
to wave back. The startling
sound of a shoal beneath.
As you wait to land

in the fog
and for us to begin.