The Theology of Waiting

Genevieve Cunningham

Imagine a flawless note, particular,
Uninhibited, unwound, consummate;
Stroked from tamed wood
To breathe, expand, fill a room,
Press against wall and ceiling,
Seep into the stairwell, seeking
An attic window, escaping;
And pursuit is futile. Listen:
All is silent, vast in the new soundlessness,
Heart racing in the recent absence
Of instrumental sound.

How intangible and yet—
How conquering. How intangible
Like wind, which is like God;
For who knows when
He is coming and going, or why,
And even when not felt or heard,
He is there; and when a window of
Opportunity is opened half an inch,
He flows in and fills the room
As though the opening were
Gaping wide. Shameless. But entitled. Once,

I curled up on the faded couch
By the window, and
Thought of wind, and God,
And desperate waiting, and the guitar
Lounging in the corner, half-tuned,
Waiting, taut with tired strings,
Alluring in sanded beauty,
Lacking an arm to enfold
An unclaimed shoulder, waiting;
And the frets are expectant, and waiting,
And God,       God,         God...
Where have you been, and when
Will I serenade the recent
Absence of silence, shoulder snug,
In hands that are firm, deft, still gentle,
And know the tune better than I.