Carrying Wait

I'm tired.  Not in my skin, but under my eyes and deep in my bones.  Sleep is light and elusive and dreams are riddled with the realities of my waking hours.  It's hard to clear the fog and find a way to take care of me and my space in the ways I want to.

All is truly well - I'm okay, just weary.

The season is confused.  We're in between the cold grey and the lukewarm pale green. 

My being is in a season of waiting without rest; it's a waiting that pushes through the mob of hours in a day to wait again upon rising, seemingly ceaseless.

I'm carrying the weight of things yet to come, waiting to lighten the load. 

I'm carrying the wait.