A Song of Home
I built my house, a tower, against the wide, blue sky.
Rain falls from its pitched roof and I am dry.
There’s a yule log on the hearth in the inglenook
And I curl there on the bench seat with my book.
I stash my wine in the cellar on orderly shelves
And I store my dreams there too. They arrange themselves.
My cupboards are full, of love, loss, death and dance.
Inside are tinier cupboards shrinking to the distance.
My kitchen range heats my water, my soup and my soul.
I will live here, forever, or till I am far too old.
Until then you are welcome. Come up the path and look.
There’s a light in the window and my coat is on its hook.
I’ll throw the door wide open. Come in. Please do.
Bring in the trees, the hills and the wide blue sky with you.
We will curl up on the bench seat, just you, and me. We’ll cry.
We’ll drink wine, dance, and dream of the wide blue sky.
Then I will say goodbye to you, and fling open the door.
I know we will not see each other ever anymore.