talkstoomuch

I carry home like a burden. A place I need to arrive at, somewhere to choose correctly and stay. After a lifetime of movement, the weight of it has worn me down. I cannot carry it physically anymore. So home becomes a pattern of recognition. The quiet yes in my body when something familiar returns. Home, for me, exists in that brief coolness at the edge of spring and fall. In the windchimes outside my window. In the sky at dusk and the pale, almost nauseating light just befor