I am a bead of water clinging to a spider’s web
at the end of a swaying branch, waiting to fall
with the next whisper of wind.

I am the last seed at the bottom of the bird feeder, 
waiting my turn to be pecked and discarded
by the next flight of wings.

I am the bough of the ancient apple tree
at the end of the garden, waiting to crack
with the next clap of thunder.

I am a green bud peeping through brown earth, 
a splash of orange under the black surface of the pond,
streaks of pink in the grey morning sky. 

And I am not waiting. 
I am now.