Living On Standby

I have no wish for quiet mornings to end.
Circumstance may someday send
me back to hew out my time
in a labor I don’t always love.
These new days at home create themselves
from obligation and inspiration.
I know which one I prefer.
But even the former weighs lightly
on my shoulders because it is mine
and I can mold it like the clay
I love to shape with my hands,
the wood on my bench,
or the gentle words that blossom like
the trees in my yard.
I find it hard to see a return
to giving myself to faceless capital
and a faithless way of spending
the best of my time.
The minutes that flow into hours
like the rattle of a rising tide
carry me inward to wash
the stones of a settled soul
that lives to imagine
each unhurried goal.