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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 04, 2018

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Submitted: March 04, 2018

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When I wake up to hear the birds chirping,

the woodpeckers pecking,

the hummingbirds whizzing,

and the bluebirds singing,

I smile and know; I am home.

 

When I am home, the sun feels a little brighter,

the smell of the creek a little stronger.

When walking in the grass, I know every step,

every dip, every sprinkler head to avoid.

When riding my bike, I know the easy ways out of the area.

 

When the deer bathe in the sun and the squirrels hide their nuts,

while the seasons change from summer to winter,

as the snow falls in silent storms,

and after being trapped inside for days.

You learn to appreciate that home.

 

I appreciate the little things like the one place under the sink where our toes are always warmed up for no good reason.

When stuck inside during a blackout, my imagination runs wild.

Now that I’m older, I take a step back, and in this time

I look around the house, reliving all the memories.



 

The living room carpet is burnt from the vacuum,

and the ceiling has marks and remnants of fun.

From the juggling club marks, the diablo dents,

the handstand scratches, and times of playing catch,

all these faults and failings in this little house, make it home.

 

I can live anywhere, sleep in any bed, watch any TV,

but that will never be home to me.  

My home has little gadgets and trinkets that no one else had.

My home is my safety, my home is where I’m loved.

Home is where the heart is, and where sadness is shunned.

 


© Copyright 2018 Brielle B. All rights reserved.

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