In between the city of never ending lights and melting metal,
Behind the sloping hills of ever fresh farm,
There is home.
Where people and ideas and music notes grow through crisp grass.
When the wind which blows with icy kisses that burn our eyes and pinches our exposed skin,
We can’t help but blow shy kisses back.
It’s where my spirit was born, without the body that was one hundred miles away.
On that secret land has no reflection in the water that dutifully surrounds it.
It’s the place that one wouldn’t live at, nor stay away from.
Difficult is this expanse of land to come by,
Unless you are there in the very beginning,
Grasping at helping hands that lead you soundlessly along the dirt path where you stop being inside yourself,
And become a piece of everyone else,
The very mud your toes are slowly sinking into,
Even Earth herself.
Home is an eternal connection that holds beyond death and hate.
Home knows only each other, and without introductions.
As I reach home once again,
After a trying year of wandering thoughts,
I find it all just as I left it,
With welcoming branches reaching up towards the sun, and the sky reaching down to us below,
Creating perfect unity and home as I know it.