Home-woven.
It doesn't matter so much the place
you call home. Places change, people change.
Weather is less wondering.
Wandering between each ridge,
each scrub valley, thirst given and received - home.
My feet on the narrow trail, steep intentions
counting breaths, each becoming clouds.
The old screened back-porch, soft underfoot,
where termites called it home - and dinner too.
She moved from that homestead the year of the
earthquake. My cousin put two small grey-wood
planter boxes before Mom's new home.
Small clustered balls of red petals contrast
mother's grounding memory, whispering while
spring somersaults just beyond the door.
For all my years of rebellion, now here, says home
again. Sometimes - even the chair that rests me.
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