The Quiet Earth

The house always hums, but at night
the chorus swells; these walls,
not yet with breath of memory
collect laughter in ceiling pockets
to drown the drone of machinery
with raw sound.

From a bedroom window,
the highway sighs like a burdened moon's ocean
overbrimmed with metallic waves
of others seeking rested heel
and the white noise of home.

They long to return to the quiet earth.
They thirst for rushing only from waters;
to reject wasted time
for the only clock is an eye
set in the sky who's yet
to blink darkness upon
their spinning wheel.