I sit, finally, in our garden
with him, whom my soul loves;
we have climbed mountains
and searched valleys;
we have run through the glen,
both of us, in our separate ways;
we have cried out with longing
and with faith.

The day has cooled and the shadows vanished –
my lover and I sit in our garden,
work completed and far from our thoughts,
the nymphs tucked into their soft beds,
the house still and silent.

We have long been apart and reunited;
now we are restored – reconciled to each other
in ways we never imagined in our youth –
when he, whom my soul loves, stood against the open door
as I walked through, and there was manifested a force between us,
powerful and unexpected.

We are at once old and new,
young and seasoned,
pale and dark,
hidden and seen.
Our children come to us
running through the glen,
each from their own separate way,
together, and they join us in ways we never could,
and never could have known –
but our souls have always known,

and now we drink the milk,
taste the honey,
pour the wine
and celebrate
in sleep, in silence, in song.

Wait until love is ready –
do not stir, or awaken love until it is time,
Daughters of Now.

For mine is a lover of ages;
he is a man from the beginning of Time
through the end of Time,
and my call is one of patience.

I will wait to stir until my love is ready;
I will wait for my love until he stirs;
my left hand is behind his head,
and my right arm embraces him.

Yet I wait