The field looks empty and the unused gate stands firm. He thinks how readily patience grows stagnant and things are benumbed. If it is ended, he knows not when and where.
He recognises an urge to clasp with ungentle haste, yet such fleeting mastery pales alongside the pull of his archaic desires.
With faith he waits as fresh water fills the vessel. At night’s darkness and alone, he tenderly washes his body, humbly accepting its beauty, its fragility. A pause oscillates between one bare moment and its other until she ebbs away beyond her unfolded possibilities.
With hope he waits as fresh life fills the vessel. He is changing, almost imperceptibly. He trembles on the border of a pause. He approaches it tentatively, almost with fear, perhaps with awe. With holy seriousness, then, he awaits its fragile invitation.
With modesty he offers a libation to the earth. And in this moment all is coming.