The Waiting

I wanted to write a poem
It looked like my mind was made up,
but the page remained empty,
and the ink waited to dance into beautiful words.

Outside, the wind swept away the fallen leaves,
the clouds threatened rain.
Inside, the clock ticked away,
time hung heavy.
Like the time before a bud blooms,
holding all the colour and fragrance inside,
before the flower opens up and sings its song to the world.

My poem too waited to sing,
and even though the words were still not out,
it was a delightful secret fluttering in my heart.