Beyond Patience

If I knew another word for patience,

would it open me to the act?

Perhaps something that invokes the patience

in the zinnias after first central flower has died

and before the next buds are formed.

Something that speaks to the patience of winter

while the field is greening more deeply every day.

To be patient is to believe there is a moment

beyond now that will be better than now. 

So perhaps instead of patience, the word

I’m longing for is presence. The capacity

to be only here. Only now. Here in the garden

where the zinnia row is thick with leaves.

Here in the meadow where it’s warm and

the tall grass tickles my bare thighs. Now

in the week before my sweet girl arrives.

Ah, there it is, back to the anticipation.

Try again. Presence, as in now, in this moment

when swallows swoop and skate and swirl.

Now, when my breath opens in my chest,

opens like a zinnia, many petalled and red.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer