Home

Through small remembered rooms
I searched, for what the child
called home, in distant days
and darkened nights;
lost houses where we lived.
As strange became familiar,
as cool walls warmed and stretched,
to hold the grimy handprints,
of children as they slept.
Beyond the grasp of solid wall,
the garden groped and fell,
into a jungled bursting;
where dreams could live instead.
Was home the narrow, sagging bed,
the couches worn and tired,
the table, green and laminex;
the wardrobe where I hid?
Or was it furrowed brows,
slow drifting smiles and shouts,
of adults with no time to spare;
of worries deep and loud?
Perhaps there was no house to hold,
nowhere which held its place,
and yet the home stood deep within;
as solid, gifted grace.
Through small remembered rooms
I searched, for what the child
called home, in distant days
and darkened nights;
lost houses where we lived.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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