The Sanctuary

The fresh smell of sheets, the roar from the skeets,

the winding dirt roads to the driveway that holds

my sanctuary, my fears, my grief and my tears, the place where my

hair grays as we count the years.

The sweet smell of bread that fills the air, the pillow that’s soft and lighter than air;

The cracks in the floor that creak ever more and the view from my room that my

Grandkids adore.

The photos of memories lining the stair that each time we pass make us poignantly aware, that home is our solace, our comfort our refuge, our shelter from storms and the timeclock deluge; its our sanity our time to be who we must, shadowed from expectations and the things we can’t trust.

My home is the place that’s safe and secure, the place where our humanity goes to be cured and I’ll never be confounded by the world’s strong lure, yes our home is our refuge and in that I am sure.