(no subject)

[cordilleran2]

Waiting for you is like waiting for Barolo
from misty, fog-shrouded, snow-cloaked crags;
or a Sagrentino from dry, dusty plains
cut by blue ribbons of water.
I face an eternity of staring
at the bottle in my cellar
biding my time for that perfect moment
when you're finally ready to be opened;
the moment which might not come--
but even then I need to wait while the decanter
slowly opens you, oxidizes you to perfection;
eons after eons of contemplation,
as I wait for you to travel the long road.

I just want to drink you already,
and have your molecules in my bones
like how I drank the wine
from a vineyard that was watered from
the ashes of the dead and
the bones of lost seas--
or the atoms of the Risen Christ
flowing through my veins after the Eucharist
intertwined with dribbles of Mavrodaphne;
I am impatient and seek my fill of you.

But I have to wait, and
the waiting is killing me again.
Why do I always end up in the position
of waiting for my desires to be fulfilled?
I never asked for God to teach me patience...
Yet, clearly, that's my cross to bear...
Again.