A Home

The universe breathes softly through your finger tips  
I looked for the moon in the wake of night only to find a constellation  
no greater wonder could have cartwheeled across this dirt  
and I think of what I consider home  
more often these days  
 
love must rest at times  
and hate must rest at times  
and I must rest too  
what kisses are of balance I do not know  
what battles are of hurt  
I've seen before  
 
your home  
is a blank space for me  
fill in the gaps with your laughter  
walking across the floor boards in midday  
 
your home  
is like your handwriting  
familiar but not mine  
silverware and the dishwasher hum  
smells I have yet to pinpoint;  
 
Sometimes I think your thoughts of home are an illusion  
I can't tell the difference much anyway  
but I hope you find the path you have been looking for  
your veins move quickly;  
 
My home is  
far from ambigious  
it rises with the sight of matches  
and grows with vines in tiny places  
 
My home welcomes a weary visitor at times  
in the presence of warm nights  
motion and music  
it withers with fear  
it opens doors  
it closes them  
it tells me about time  
again and again  
grounded and not  
flying is imagined  
it stops  
it starts again  
my home is a scavanger  
my home crawls with insects  
devouring things like a predator  
devouring things like a tornado  
devouring things like a broken heart  
 
then  
 
the wind blows-  
and there are tree frogs-  
there is the gentle darkness too  
 
that lulls you to sleep