Returning

Written on my return from Clergy Conference

The floodlit church rests lightly on the hill,
The smell of woodsmoke lingers in the air,
An owl cries out for company, a chill
breeze whispers furtive secrets not to share.
Inside the house the television flickers,
while upstairs restless children quietly sleep.
The lightbulbs brighten walls adorned with pictures
of loved ones and of memories.  This deep
deep ordinariness is so familiar
and yet tonight it is somehow imbued
with poetry, and rhythm, and the stillness
that marked these last days of beatitude.
Like waves retreating from a crowded shore
Returning brings new riches to explore.

© Rich Clarkson, April 2024