What is this place, “home”, 

But a warmth, a comfort 

something you know. 

It must be somewhere in the heart

becoming whatever you want it to be. 

inhabiting a particular kind of smell, 

one that fades as you grow into it 

but is distinctive for others, 

and for you, too.

it remains and knows things

expanding along with those within it 

Present throughout each milestone

in silence, in its stillness.

where dreams are made and 

lost and found again, 

In its old corners 

And then the new ones

—-----

we’re all made of these pieces and parts, 

moments cobbled together to make a whole 

that eventually becomes “us.”

what happens when we wade in the past 

The “stuff”

the piles and piles and piles

and re-collect our selves, 

all of them, the remnants of our history

and if time were linear, 

why am I my great grandfather and he was I?

To think we listened to the same notes, the songs sung 

In the hallways of our holidays

arranged in a way that made sense at the time. 

In one of these rooms, not unlike any other.

and we laughed and wept 

and prayed and ate. 

And all of that became me. 

It becomes you. 

—--------

we’re all made up of these tiny little moments 

that seem so insignificant 

until they’re all you have. 

underneath,

that is just me, too. 

A child. 

from nothing but the apparent love of two people.

wonder. And Color.

Play and playfulness

the excessively sweet. 

Life lived all at once 

until you look back 

and call it childhood.

—-------

So when we sleep - where is it that we go 

that isn’t the past or some version of it, 

something we’ve contrived to make sense of things. 

dreams and whatever else 

the layers and the surfaces we’ve developed.

how do we know, at the end. What’s left? 

how quickly we are to dispose of,

to move on. 

to create anew or 

recreate another version of what we’ve had all along. 

So how do we know, at the end. that it’s the end? 

and what comes after that?

—-------