The slow pace of life at home
in the seat of familiarity
is, at times, maddening.
Slowly I wake up
in the bed of my childhood
petting the dogs as they slumber
my head still full of last night’s dreams
about jelly fish with eyes
who swim in the air.
Hot coffee steam floats up to my nose
as the smell of a toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel
wafts in the kitchen.
I let the dog out onto the deck
and decide to step out with him.
Cyan ripples through the silver sea of the sky
and the crown of the sun rises
over a sleepy blanket of rain in the east.
The deep cold ocean curls around islands
and disappears into fog.
The scent of firs and saltwater
form a vision of home behind my closed eyes
as thoughts about atrocities in the morning paper
dissolve into the dark.
I feel just where I am,
standing in the faux-fur of borrowed slippers.
- written at Redondo Beach, Des Moines, WA.
