Home

I once believed Home was where I housed my treasures:

A finicky fiddle leaf fig tree,

A calico cat curled on a cushion,

A Butter Cream rose bush that blooms every year,

A coffee cup with a chip on the lip.

Yes, possessions are precious, but property does not a Home make.

Time away and distance have made me more discerning.

Home is not stored stuff; it’s a state of mind.

Home is a sigh of satiety released when you return from the road.

It’s the comfort that comes when you quietly cocoon on the couch.

It's a pivot toward peace, away from pressure and panic.

Home can’t be held in your hand; it inhabits your heart.

It’s an affirmation of acceptance, an assurance that announces:

You are safe now.

You are Home.