Strangeness emanates, wafts like the tropical breeze.
It makes me wonder if being content and not endlessly seeking
some wisp of a life caught on an unreachable cloud
will make me bereft of the drive to create.
Will I still want to search for magical words, mysterious deeds that
seem to drift just out of reach of my ability to frame them?
Always before when travel took me out of my life,
I longed for a peace I didn’t have, a peace of me.
How is it now with this man I am utterly me,
Clear of self and fulfilled of purpose?
How does one want in a world where you
breathe the air of completeness?
Janice DeRuiter 2013