On the couch, reclining
The dog warms my feet
In rest. I sit, writing,
In a place I am calling ‘home’.
Across the street,
Children wrestle sleep,
Filled with dreams–
The kind that
Call us to run fast,
Faster.
Parents laugh, tired
From work. “Work” that
Calling, as the wise put it,
Striving labor which
Makes all else possible,
The rest of us say.
In another city, a
Woman awakes to
Face a new day, whose
Potential is yet to
Be decided
For a myriad of fears and dispositions.
Around the globe,
Another family
Prepares a meal–
In all shared
Food there is a kind
Of inexplicable Communion.
This is the world:
All these and less,
We expect.
All stories are
One, but for all
Stories writ and
Told,
We know not
What story
It is.
