A Very Fine House
I go to the house, small and modest, cloaked in green-leathery leaves who bend so kindly to greet me. The soil, soft on my bare feet is a familiar kiss on the cheek. On the porch she sits golden under the glow of the sun, as if it were made solely to adorn her skin with warmth. Her introduction to my life was the ease of my soul. Forever could never daunt the one who found it. Home is the eyes of my child, reflecting to me the fire of curiosity. A smile, created to dissolve the walls of even the least tender heart. The cottage is filled with sweet song and scattered shoes, muddied from the fields we saunter at sunrise. Our table, ornamented with candles and the sweetness of honey and tea. Sisters on their way with kin for an afternoon cup. It is a simple dream. One that visits me each night, creasing the lines of my mouth with delight. Forewarns of dreaming, echo from the chamber of realists. It poisons one's cognizance of the present. If this is so, let it poison me. What medicine of the heart it is, to see a once lamentable dreamscape renewed with reverie and hope. If a dreaming apologist is my fate, then at least accuse me with passion! My lungs are refreshed. Each version of my being, from youth to soil, is lifted with tender elation. Possibility, a friend of encouragement. Choice, an engaging companion. I will someday touch those blades of bristly grass, And let the soft strings of my guitar join the song of the hummingbirds. A million ways for a life to unfold, and I dream of this one.