by Jay Davenport
I lay in my bed as the gentle breeze
plays with the sheer curtains which
envelope my window.
I sit in silence, listening to the
pureness of it all.
The wind dances with each leaf on each tree,
an orchestra playing a gentle
work which stirs me to life.
I came home to nothing, left the hard city
and all of her energy, the sounds that never die.
There is no traffic here; no horns, no yelling.
The apartment beside me cannot wake me with
raucous parties or voluminous fights.
My neighbors are oak and pine and ask, and they
but whisper, mindful of the peace.
I came home to no need to perform, or be who I am not;
It would be like asking a tree to scream, how unnatural and unlike
myself I must be.
I came home to solitude.
I came home to myself.
Posted on 10/22/2006
Copyright © 2021 Jay Davenport