on the act of waiting for the right time

if only i'd wait for more inspiration
than the words would flow
better, in their becoming before being, crisper
in anticipation of perfection
i'd cross all i's and dot all t's

if only i'd wait for the sun to shine brighter
and cast a beam of light
melting letters into morphemes
magnifying words into meanings
thoughts into symbolic forms

to be judged in light of
all lights

if only i'd wait for the critical moment
these words would not have crashed on my apple, once
or wound up wet in a rained on text, once again
because syncopation can repeat at ifinitum,
the way a drum beats
or pendulum swings
but the right time never comes