A place, your place, where you have time.
I look for it, sometimes finding it, that place called home.
The familiar rests in deep browns and greens as you look out through trees.
Is this my home? I ask. Is this my true home or am I remembering somewhere else?
To return to that place where you were born, where you cried for mother’s milk.
Such simplicity, I say to myself. If only I could be back there, remembering.
But you’re the parent now and you’re the grandparent – your life spreading.
I find bits of my home all over the place, in the garden, in another country.
You want to gather the pieces up in your arms and into one place.
That place where you have time, that place called home.