The routines of home are comforting. The more slowly I linger, the more I notice. A steaming pot of split pea soup simmers on the stove, and everything is waiting for me.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.