Do seeds long for the soil in which their mothers set their roots?
Or, does any fertile earth give sustenance as home and kin?
So easily we forget the source, the foundation from which we first embarked.
Eyes set on the horizon, we seek to set down roots all our own,
Oft overlooking the networks in place far before we knew the sweet smell of fresh turned bedding.
Deep beneath, in the end; song of dove and swan just the same.
These substrates forgive but do not forget.
The feeling of returning to your bed when you’re sick on a weekday at 11:54 AM,
And you just used the last of your energy to get home and crawl under the covers.
Taking off your flippers underwater in the summertime,
Or your socks after a long walk.
We go, out of adventure or necessity or longing, but when we leave
We gain a small discomfort, that only returning home can relieve.
Have you found your shell, helix into which you embed?
Have you adorned your abode with the comforts of a life well lived?
When you grow, do you think that you can take these things with you as well?
Or do you also know how ephemeral these objects are,
The difference between a house and a home an area of grey obscure fog if
“Lay your head or lay your heart”
Means anything to you.
We all define home differently.
We define home as a structure; a location, a region, a person, a feeling.
Because of this, some are able to carry their homes on their backs far and wide.
Others prefer many small ventures, returning home with fresh experience and knowledge.
Some prefer to never seek or discover. With a wide range of preference,
Surely no one is more precious than another.
How is one to define their home?
Drift to banks and shores as solid ground beckons.
Branches caught in flowing stream, rapids grounded too by
Undercurrent and shallow stones; sand is a liquid here.
White peaks under cool blue and cotton grey
Electric yellow too, iris and we the pupil, learned only in
Waves: not of consequence, impermanent, but influential still.