Lavender, and soap –
The sound of children laughing,
Frogs croaking in a nearby creek,
The feeling of freshly mowed grass between my toes,
The sun, setting atop the mountain peaks,
Bright, silvery moonlight –
casting shadows across
a patch of Earth, tilled and ready for a garden
The bay of an old hound,
White-tail deer – silent and stoic – standing beneath a distant tree,
The persistent creak of a porch swing, decrepit and decaying,
Old books that smell of dust and paper,
The tiny, tart, spring apples from the backyard tree,
Pines as tall as the mountains themselves,
Ancient rocks and shady laurels,

From towering oaks, to the tiny buttercups,

These are all home to me,

And home is where we make it.

Which means,

that lately…

Home is the beautiful brown depth of your gaze,

and the crooked smile of your compassion.

And home is where we make it.



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