is where i was born.
home is where i grew up to crisp mid-winter mornings,
opening the kitchen door, feeling the cold blast
of air as i check to see if the milk had been delivered yet.
home is the patchwork lands,
acre after acre of corn and beans
split only by a dirt road going off into the distance.
home is the smells
of wet leaves and raked grass in the fall.
home is the different smells of late fall snows
from the early spring snows.
home is the places that are a part of me,
familiar friends i visited often.
home is the cold edge of air
in the winter, driving around at night
snow crystals reflecting light
like someone had shoveled diamonds
onto the road.
home is watching the mud-drenched muskrat
waddle its way down to the river.
home is the slow pace of living there,
not this break-neck pace
where time flies past unseen,
uncounted, and suddenly I do
not recognize my reflection in the glass.
home is where my dead are buried,
lying, waiting, knowing I will soon
join them, as one of them.
i often wonder if i will make it
home, before i die, once more to be apart
of the smells,
and the snow,
and the gentle breezes of spring.