Home
Home is the smell of a linen closet,
with its never ending array of
canvased colors consisting of
extra bedding for the unexpected
sleepovers.
Home is the bruised hardwood floors
that have felt the resounding beat of
shoes, bare feet, and paws
silently, sweetly, and sometimes sneakily
pass over its surface.
Home is the sound of twinkling letters
floating in the air to form sentences
to dish out advice and adventure because
aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas
were once young too.
Home is the taste of
love baked into the endless casserole dishes or
the warm, worn soup pot on the stove
filled with the sun-ripe vegetables
that remind you of the
dew-encased summer mornings with
Mamaw
delicately picking beans with warm hearts
and worn fingers.
Home is the touch of a gentle mother's
hand, putting a cool washcloth
to your neck, or
the sweat making your back stick to the
wooden railing of the front porch,
where sweet tea was sipped slowly from
Mason jars, and stories were
slowly woven into the dance of the
lightning bugs.