There is the patience of the tree,
with feet set fast in earth;
buffeted by storms,
stripped of leaves by droughts,
home to birds and parasites,
bored into by beetles and worms,
reaching to ever greater heights
until sawn and dismembered by men,
or turned to a heap of ash
by the impatient hunger of fire,
or felled by the lash
of the whirlwind.

There is the patience of the schoolboy
by the open window
through which the sun blazes,
poised precariously
between French verbs and sleep,
while all the world outside lazes
by the cool deep
of the river.

There is the patience of the owl
on the beam
in the silent barn
waiting
for the straw in the corner
to stir.

There is the patience of the cat
waiting to kill
and the mouse trapped on the window sill
waiting to be killed.

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