Home once again knowing
that these many excursions away
provide me with the solid love of place
that some might never fully enjoy
the soft details, the particular contours of
this house this bed the blue living room sofa
with its pillows the lace curtains that I chose myself
the rugs underfoot the bits of thing wanted looked for found
in this drawer in that cupboard that closet
whose door might not close properly or perfectly but
is nevertheless one’s own and therefore dear
the two old walnut trees already bare
the porch railing wanting paint
the front door purple because I made it so
the wooden floors that squeak familiarly here
and exactly there just as I know they do and will
the fireplace with those holes in the chinking that
prevent its use, those holes that I’ve studied for
twenty years of evenings from where I’ve sat
upon that blue sofa always thinking
One day I’ll fill those holes and I’ll lay a cozy fire
knowing full well that I most likely never will.