The Watcher

With hands in his pockets, he stands on his porch
And stares out over the lake,
But his eyes are blind to the beauty of nature,
And his heart has a deep yearning ache.

He doesn't know why he's been restless so long...
It's something he cannot define,
It's something he wants, something he needs,
He's just waiting for some kind of sign.

But the lake doesn't offer any hints from its depths,
And the wind in the pines gives no clue,
And the cry of the loons gives no sage advice
About what it is he should do.

But sometimes, unbidden, the answer will come,
As loud and as clear as can be,
It's what his heart and his soul have both known for so long...
He's watching and waiting for me.