This House This Home
in this house the music of the night
is the soft rain from the sky falling upon the grass
like tiptoeing mothers watching their young children
sleeping and kissing their foreheads
there is no burning fire here from wood
and there is no smoke from a cigarette
it is dark as usual but it is desirable
even darker as there are no stars tonight
i am not sad
i am at home with myself in this house
i hear the symphony of winds and whispers
from the leaves of trees and the chants of earthworms
it is cold and so i have closed all the windows and doors
& then i curl beneath my blanket of roses
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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