what is it like being home?

home is the first wind blowing against a tear-streaked face, telling us fall has come and is here
like water dripping lightly from the sky tiptoeing across skin like slippers on a hardwood floor
home is the silence of knowing and not having to say
green leaves turned orange and drifting back whence they came

home is brown bark ripped from old trees still very alive
green-gray water swishing against concrete walls
an orange moon that appears and then disappears through paper thin clouds against a sky whose name resounds more deeply than cerulean

a voice harsh and loving
and a smile filled with the gift of simple presence
bitter crying cold and a zero wind chill when you left your best scarf in a warm place

home is slush and dirt
yellow snow and snowsuits for three year olds
angels that are white but only by association

it is ten minutes added to the ride for the care given to the cold car that will warmly arrive at its proper destination

home is hot tea by a bright fireside
couches twenty years old and still cushy
shoes that will never be worn again but can never be discarded

home is heaven on earth
and in its arms sleep cradles and rocks to the beat of my very heart