i wake late.
dreams finished, linens twisted, sunshine calling.
breathe, roll, blink, stand.
eyes crusty, throat parched, back stiff.
it's a sad kind of magic, this sleep-in.
out my window, a stooped old woman in pressed slacks prunes shrubs.
down the highway, transports roar by, shake the foundation of this old house.
somewhere, my boys tumble into another adventure together, older.
paintings unpainted, groceries unpurchased, table unwiped.
but i have tasted needful rest, and i feel it:
i'm not Home yet.