Connect

Long, very.
The day, the night, it matters not.
I wait, and the wait is long, very.
Prelude to a bounce, says my self,
just being busy, while you're not, says my ego.
All I really look for is to rest
safe, steady, right in the eye of the storm.
And from there to spread my arms out
and touch, and understand through touching,
the whirling winds that are shaking,
once again,
the foundations and walls and roofs and windows of my puny shelter.
As doomed to failure as it may be,
I find impossible to resist the urge.
Reach out: connect.