Comet

Waiting, long, hard, patiently, waiting. A manuscript
Is written, on papyrus which in water enveloped
Waits to be, consumed, fire, eaten through by water
Waiting.

All things, through the immortal hourglass, waits, like
The nectar dripping from the comb, encompassing
Life force, the worker belittles nothing.

Waiting, it always, approaches, at the climactic crescendo.
The heart sheds, a dew drop, Waiting to collect, more
Desire ceases, when ceaseless desire, desires final moment
Dips, into a pool unconscious, reservoir untold, condemnation?
Eternal. Limitless. Unending.

A comet commits to ice, as a sun commits to life. Both destroy
Both suffice, both play and toy, on the brink, neither feeble
Upon the same string plucked, may the profound be deemed trite?

Christopher Baird 2012 ©