My home is a carving on a fireplace
And cold winter tiles
Under slow-morning feet
The safety of regimen and compassion
Of not doubting breakfast will be delicious
In sunrise dappled kitchens
For the children of good parents
Trying to be better
With their confident words
And broken hearts
My home is losing sight of home
Of being lost in the world
When the engine of youth fails
And the beating heart turns back
From its narrow path
Feeling the seeds of the past
Breaking through
And discovering once again
What it means, not just to want
But to need shelter
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