The Wait (Poetry)

It is a slow recovery —
enough to try the patience
of the most placid saint.

The body won’t be rushed
but hangs on to weakness
like it’s feeling settled in
and comfortable with this lesser
undemanding state.

Any attempt to force the issue —
goad listless limbs to action
is doomed to dizzy failure
legs refuse to take the weight.

At least another day or two required
perhaps a week or more
mind can’t in this case
triumph over matter.

The goal of sickness being to frustrate
what life had planned
and getting well needs as long
as whatever time such mending takes ...

Meanwhile there’s nothing else to do
but rest. And rest some more.
And simply wait.

(But just how long is that
knotty piece of string?)