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.
