I Sit Here This November Evening
As I sit here this November evening, it occurs to me,
That I am passing time counting markers to my life
With a sense of waiting.
And I ask myself, "Waiting for what?"
For my dreams to com true? To achieve some good?
I have no dreams. I set no goals.
I only wish to move quietly, gently as possible - to hurt no one.
I see myself in another time, in a new country,
Far, far from this little house
On this little street.
I see green fields, planted in corn,
Cattle grazing in the pastures and lovely bright woods,
Where I can take long autumn walks and lie down to sleep
Unafraid, if I so choose.
I am tired, so tired of pretending to be happy here.
I see no magic cure for what I believe is true;
"This world is not my home," as the old hymn says.
And is it home that I ache for.
I am a nomad not by my own choice
And I am no good at it.
I look to the night sky and find Orion
And whisper in my heart to God,
"Come, come, come Lord."
Sweet Jesus, loyal brother, precious savior, my friend.
My home is with you. I am not waiting for death.
I am waiting for life.
Read my thoughts. Feel my pain. Purify me,
As the bride would bathe herself for her lover,
So would I cleanse myself for you.
Come for me. Take me home. Come for me. Come for me.
I beg you my love...
Come for me.
© 2009 by Sheila King
