I wrote this poem without conscious thought. In fact, I don't think it was originally a poem, I just made it out to be one. At any rate, I've read it dozens of times and it has taken me all those read-throughs and more to actually begin to understand what it is the poem is saying. I get too caught up in the wording and imagery that the meaning and metaphors escape me. But I get it know, and I suppose the core of it really is in the title. I might have posted this here in the past, but for records and request, here it is again, in the form of its sending out. Why Does She Wait? Dismally she sits and waits in winters' slumber, herself awake and dreary, wide-eyed and dull, silent and listening. To what she listens for is breathed in the soft whispers of the new years' eve, silent prayers and pleas marked and tallied, counted by the stars; one wish granted, one star falls. The morning lacks to move her, a likeness not yet in her, a desire not yet inside her; Slumber does not yet take her. A pale light does then find her, a sitting spot on a soiled rug, the ends with tassels and intricate design; the needle of the mind and threads of inspiration locked in knots, unwilling, un-finding, unable to be undone. But what does she wait for? While the cold winter rays fall and spill slowly over icy deaths of dreamers yet to rise, in the hollow caves of lovers' home where they surrender their hearts and lives, or in the bows of rocking cradles where the restless dreamers stir, why does she sit and wait so still, while the gray days melt to a blue-shaded blur? What has taken her? Eyes so set upon a wanton fate, feet stripped and naked before an unlocked gate, she sits and she sits, oh why does she wait?