is not in the waiting, Eliot.
No, not in her lot.
Hope is in the swing
waltzing with the wind
and the jolt of a young girl's legs
hanging down loosely;
in that oscillating back and forth
between downright naivety
and comforting joy.
She could have wrought Love from silence
and not one graceful No
if she'd believed in you, Eliot,
and sowed Hope in the waiting.
