that tranquility I’ve cherished
and now don’t know how
to live with as a constant.
When it was rare in stolen
moments, a temporary pause
I knew would end too soon,
I could float away and love
the drift, a disconnected interval
sandwiched between life’s demands.
But how long can I float
when there is no shore beyond,
no expectation of arrival?
There’s a strange new craving
for a sound, some familiar noise,
a voice somewhere in the house.
