W. Roger Carlisle
Waiting Gracefully
Each morning, the world lifts its veil as if for the first time.
Old creature that I am, I blink like a newborn in its glow.
There is no lesson, only light. No grand revelation,
only the scent of coffee, the hush of a house holding its breath.
I do not search for meaning in the wrinkles of my skin
or the ache in my knees – they are not riddles, only records.
Time has softened me, not like rotting fruit, but like river stone.
Once jagged, sharp with certainties, I am now smooth in the hand,
warm from the sun.
I have learned to hold silence as a companion
and let go of the need to be right.
There were years when I mistook anger for depth,
bitterness for brilliance – I wore them like armor,
clanking through the world.
But the years peeled me back, slow and without malice,
until I stood bare beneath a sky too vast to argue with.
Gratitude – not the loud kind, not the kind that begs to be seen –
lives quietly in my chest now.
I am a soft animal breathing. I wax curious.
I do not chase joy. I wait, still and open,
and it finds me,
again and again.
Other work by W. Roger Carlisle