A poem for Sunday

I try not to wish days, weeks and seasons away, even if it's not my favourite time of year. After all, making soup is something I won't do in July. This poem, called Patience, is by Poet Laureate Kay Ryan.

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.
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