Endurance

Endurance is my virtue. No one here
Compares with me. It isn't patience, no,
Nor perseverance, which is just a show,
Not substance. I, of course, could persevere,
But that's too active – it's a sign of fear
To be so quick to move about, so slow
To bear things 'til they're better. What will grow
Or shrink – no matter – we will see next year.

It's all about the sure passage of time,
Which runs consistently, not always straight,
Not always happily. Instead of fate
Octaves and sestets, often not sublime,
Just fourteen more pieces of me that rhyme.
I write another sonnet, and I wait.