As a little boy
with blond hair
and eyes filled
with wonder
and fear.
The anxiety
of strangers
and new places
always feeling
for home.
Home was in
the pages of
stories
constructed as
barriers and walls
against strangers
and the eyes
and noises of
an unkind
world.
Home was in
that unspectacular
cabin under the pines
with doors closed
and locked
and curtains
drawn.
And a fire and
hot chocolate
and a little
body free
of free.
Home was in
my grandmother's
kitchen at
the farm.
On a wooden
stool as my
grandma listened
and held my
wandering eyes
and I was ok.
And held and known
within her.
A homeland.
A better country.
A heavenly culture
of welcome and
kindness.
A longing for home
in the wounds
of a child.