A wonder in the waiting


A marvel awaits, as we cease to attempt,

To right every wrong and the Victor preempt.

We race far afield,

Forgetting to yield,

And cultivate strife. Thus, we harvest contempt.


We pique in a pickle and wrinkle fair brow.

We pause not for progress; our tempers endow.

And so in our prime,

We lose the sublime,

To sacrifice joy on the altar of now.


The sudden has surely been much oversold.

Our striving earns nothing but shiny fool’s gold.

Beginning again,

In each now and then:

We might wonder what may our waiting behold.

c2023 by Linda Ann Nickerson

 This poem was posted in response to these prompts:

 Image: Victorian Portrait of Unknown Woman – vintage/public domain, finder’s credit to Sepia Saturday


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