What is home?
Is it less four walls
than four corner posts.
More a scaffold through
which the wind moves,
the sun focuses its warmth,
wakes us each morning.
And what is home,
but something we put in our pocket,
leave from, return too.
Take out to turn
in our hands.
A well fingered stone,
warm, smooth.
And what is home,
but that which feels
like arms of grace, warmth of milk,
a kiss on the forehead.
That we are never fully at home
until we feel this safety
of a cocoon restored.
And what is home?
Is it less four walls,
a roof, a crib, a cup –
than it is a hollow
in which a bed
of straw is laid, a smile,
and fingers grasped
under moon and stars.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
November 2020
Living Tree Poetry 