the waiting

It is a kind of love, is it not?

The waiting.

The being OK with an unfinished project,

An untended garden that thrums with life,

The unpainted skirting boards 

knocked and scuffed by trikes and kicked-off shoes.

We love beneath the surface; we meet in the weeds. 

This is where the growth happens,

where roots reach to each other and touch and spark life.

Among unwashed glasses and cast-off clothes, 

we reach and hold each other in the wilds.