The Delayed Harvest

My happy days ahead are still staring at your hands,

waiting for a signal to start.

My smiling dawn is still waiting intently for the light of your gleaming eyes,

to allow its appearance.

My daylight is still counting the days until your bright smile command it,

to illuminate my dim roads.

My eloquent words are still longing for your heartbeat,

to be engraved on the pages of my blank years.

My home is still in readiness for the command of your soothing voice,

to be erected on the solid rock of the sharp fissure away from the bottomless abyss.

My lost loved ones are still in anticipation for the warmth of your presence,

to be joined together around the fireplace during the cold winter nights.

The withered leaves of my deserted city gardens are still 
in wait for the passing of your spectrum,

to breathe life into them again.

My solitary walk amid the uncaring crowd is still longing for the joyfulness of holding your tender hands,

to make my lifelong dreadfulness fade away.

The delayed harvest of all the past seasons is still waiting for your coming,

to produce its yield.