Home Is
A spider web
In the light of the sun
Rising in the east.
It is the sit of the wren,
The pecking of the chickens
And the sweetness
Of my lovers kiss
Upon my neck
His breath and smell forcing me
To close my eyes
And savor the moment.

Home is the roar of the highway
As people travel
And south
Even on a perfect
Sunday morning.
It is a breath held
And released
For the stillness the cool breeze
Brings to the moment.
It is the glistening drop of water
Slowly gathering
And enough weight
To drop
To the earth
In a thundering unexpected
Silent splash.

Home is the chatter of the squirrels
Momentarily upset
By the hawk
Who hunts them
And miraculously appears
Seemingly out of no where
Or the raccoon
Who instinctually year after year
Returns to the faithful persimmon
Savor in their short season.
It is the pine warbler trill,
The hermit thrush song,
The nuthatch call,
And the seasonal
Eastern phoebe song.

Home is here.