No one sane would choose this
sweet spanse of nothing,
but now I am praised for living
within the borders of my little world,
watching leaves wave beyond
the open windows, listening for rain,
noting the light move across these walls,
the sheen on the floor.
You’ve never looked better, they say,
and it’s true. The life I was born for
glows with inattention, basks in the lapse
of anything to do, thrives like banana
palms beyond my kitchen sink, ripening fruit
dangling under red orbs, new stalks pushing
up through the dirt to replace the ones that are done.
I am here, repairing with all
that is lost, removed, forgotten, unseen.
Cradled in the absence of noise,
companion of cedared blankets, water in the pipes,
colored paper on cabinet shelves, contented dogs—
we all live complete as the bare touch
of wood beneath my strengthening feet.