I will tell of Home -- in fourteen short lines.
Not a roof, nor a house, but something more:
A grassy hill, topped with wildflowers, pines,
Where lost time beckons for us to ignore
the rest of Earth. Vast metallic skies of tin,
long shadows darkening, breathless laughter,
electric shock touching, kissing our skin,
a moment so flitting, we only felt it after,
For now there's crackling ashes of firewood,
at midnight, that breeze playing with your hair,
flames that burned our fingers in childhood,
and now, intertwined, in the cool smoky air.
Your sparkling eyes whisper words of their own,
Urging me, earnest, to write about Home.