"The city dweller rushes, the farmer moves steadily, the monk is solemn in the way he moves. Their objects are different." --J.H. van den Berg

There is a return that cannot seem to rest.   

Push, push on.   

Feet and hands treading, body surging, and the water moves with us.  Closing my eyes to each particular, smelling to find my way around.  Return now, my familiar unfamiliar.  It is new, and yet what I meant to say to you that night was: “This is what home feels like.”  The provisions are stored, and the screen door lets in enough wind, enough light, enough life.  You might have agreed with that.

Can we stop talking about this now?  

Perhaps.  

          But. 

   Then.  

Can you count the ways things are said aloud?  It's all in the listening.

And, breathing takes the form of in and out, 

a return that cannot rest.