Here’s a poem by the great farm poet from southwest Virginia, Amy Wright:
I love the image of the barn waiting to fall, but not falling. For ten years. How long is our own waiting-t0-fall limbo? And how many of them do we have?
How many of us are in the process of meeting the right person, but not meeting the right person?
How many of us are in the process of getting right spiritually, but not getting right?
How many of us are in the process of forgiving ourselves for something, but not forgiving?
I am. I am. I am. And my waiting-to-fall is long. And is longing.
(Here’s a link to the book from which this poem has been selected. Apostrophe Books)