Poetry

Home Is a Place

Credit: Rosalie Baron Taken by Rosalie Baron

This poem is about what makes my home my home. Thought of with rooibos tea and linen blankets, inspired by warmth, lint and butter.

Home is a place where I sift pomegranate seeds with my fingers, one by one.

Home is a place where the lamps burn low in their weakened sockets and cast flickering crests of light upon dust bunnies and wooden angels.

Home is a place where biting bugs hover around sticky fruit split open by hungry fingers.

Home is a place where families quarrel, like mother, like daughter, with shouts and slams and “sorrys” and “I love yous.”

Home is a place where socks go missing, shoes are chewed and teeth are lost.

Home is a place where lint abounds, sweaters fray and salt spills.

Home is a place where dinner, whether pot-roast or microwaved tamales, comes warm and savory upon the tongue.

Home is a place where paint, once crisp, cracks in submission of the sun.

Home is a place where gophers frolic, appeased by each blossoming monkey flower they pull into the ground.

Home is a place where gum is left to harden on the cool concrete walkway leading to the front door.

Home is a place where books stack along the walls, waiting for their wayward bookshelf to return.

Home is a place where apples grow ripe and snappish, punishing you for picking them by dispensing a cripplingly chalky flavor.

Home is a place where fruit crisps bake quickly in the oven, sending waves of spicy, sugary, aroma throughout the house.

Home is a place where bathtubs are flooded, causing rain and roar within the walls.

Home is a place where finches are born to fly, roses are born to red and errors are born to laughter.

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