The car stops,

the door opens,

waits.

Then shuts and disappears

into the shadows;

gone.

Exhaust flames engulf me

as I stand there

and wait.

An untouched notebook lays atop my messy desk,

beside my set of colored gel pens;

in the past I’d draw, I’d write, I’d reflect.

But now I sit,

and wait.

What am I waiting for?

Am I waiting for the car to arrive,

the door to open, and draw me in?

Am I waiting for the pen to arise,

press down on the paper, illustrate my thoughts?

The car stops,

the door opens,

waits.

I enter this time,

along lantern-lit paths;

eternal.

sparks line my vision

as I sit there

and do.

Maybe all along, I wasn’t waiting.

I was leaving.

Shutting the door that opened invitingly,

opened for me.

I can’t sit and wait for opportunities to encapsulate me;

I must do.