Home

People think home is where we come from,

But home is something we find.

I found mine in the dark veil of night,

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Stippled with glistening pinpricks of light       

Silently incandescing across the street

The street sunken in tides of deep gray,

 

Washing away the arduous day.

I found mine in the soft chill of the breeze,

Brushing through the leaves,

 

As though whispering to the trees

To ease them into sleep. 

 

People think a home is a under a roof,

But the boundless sky has no ceiling.