Puzzle piece

I think of nomads
My fingers trace the walls unfamiliar
Paper scrunched in boxes that held the
‘things’ that now have found a home

Sunlight sits, waiting for curtains
to be drawn, to drop upon the floors
Yet grey clouds in the distance loom
reminding me that all is not perfect

The obscure piece that’s left
wondering if it will be slotted
to make the puzzle whole
Strange territory where thoughts spin
from calm to confusion

Past lives consume, with
empty boxes cast aside
paper waiting to wrap those
‘things’ again, to find a new home

A drifter, vagabond
Sauntering, singular but not
The sun streams, the clouds hover
the only sound I hear, the dialogue
on Bridges of Madison County

Copyright JMTacken 21.6.2014