Really like this.
Upon arriving from the subcontinent,
a month out of harbor, the house brightens
against the honey locust and the linden out front,
both barren now and bereft of purpose.
Before I’ve reached the door,
the blood stirs as I step gingerly
down the icy walk threatening
to spill me over in the crunchy snow.
I am eager for stillness, desperate for rest.
Inside a trusty furnace, my own sheets, a purring cat.
Why then, this intolerable quiet,
this anxious refuge?
Why then, this nagging restlessness
that beckons forth into the smoke
churning from the world’s furnace,
inviting me yet again
into the familiar unknown
bumbling in the bright dark,
yearning for something
that won’t let me go.