Poetry

Love lives here,

within these walls smeared with peanut butter fingerprints

and crooked frames.

I tend to this sanctuary, as maker of the home,

baking bread that wafts through the hallways like incense.

I have never been employed in a more important role;

The maker who makes the place

who makes us who we are.

I build this nest while building souls,

two jobs so entwined, they are hard to distinguish.

Love lives here,

Its presence is known — bringing rules to the house

that I hope to impose:

be patient

be kind

keep no record of wrongs

protect

trust

and persevere.

Love lives here.

Under this roof, I am planting roots

that keep us grounded.

And as my children grow and stretch tall to the sky,

they will know what nourishes them.

In a world that asks what will you make of yourself,

There is nothing small in making a home

that makes the peace of the world.

Love lives here.

It always will,

as years fade into another.

As children grow and go on their own,

they will turn by the tree where the wildflowers grow,

For what will be then has always been,

Love lives here.