OUR HOMES
Our homes, day after day, define us
up and down: window shades
letting there be darkness after light,
tables laid in the kingdom of waiting,
beds,
the supple shelves of dream and love.
If trees can think, what do they make of homes
we make of them?
What can we make of all things,
the very all things right before our eyes?
Like oldsters in Genesis
living so long, we hear
the music of the here
and now. And begin
to sing.
– Henry Braun
Nice poem of life. Thanks!
Thank you nanaof4. Since it’s a bright morning, it’s time to leave the home and take a walk:
And what’s more,
I’m pulling the sock taut
that’s bunched underneath my heel.
Zero I might regret, but this
undulant foot on the trail
is not entirely zero.
More than
little-pleasures-all-in-a-row
is what I set out into the woods for,
this great woods 100 yards from home.
Whistling goodbye
to the soft reaches of self-
reproach,
I grab the drooped hand
of the minimal to sashay
down my old road to the future.
How beautiful and comforting. Thank you, Henry!