Coming home

Coming home

Just sitting,
Window gazing,
Breathing.
The song of the birds
Flitting amidst branches
Or perched atop the roof of the rough old stone wall;
Outhouse and nesting place.
Jaw falls open,
Relaxes,
Softens my face,
And all around is soft too,
Soft and spacious and quiet.
Cat upon my lap,
Muffled hammerings of builders
Building homes for other lives.
And me, basking.
Moments out of time
A gift to myself,
Of allowing and giving fully
Without hitches,
Expectation,
Conditions.
Demanding nothing of myself
A sweet being
Unfolds,
Is setting me free
As only the self can,
To ‘be.’
Being free is simple,
Does not require any form
Money – things – other people,
It is essence itself
Waiting for us to come home.