A word on waiting...

I always read Whitman in the fall.
His words fit the season
sound on my mind like boot soles against the pavement,
wrap around me like an old sweater
warm me like an old friend.

I find quiet there
where nobody knows me.
Where I get answers to questions I haven't asked
but still need heard;
and I feel connected through
and entwined,
a different branch of the same tree,

waiting.

If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.