Home is… (slipping colors) – Poem

Home is… (slipping colors) and photography by: Erickson

The sun slips her colors.
Orange-pink uplifts gray clouds 
And green-yellow encourages frothy waves. 
Home is home is home. 

Each sunset and sunrise,
The waxing and waning,
The height of the swing, versus the momentum of a fall,
Is a human fingerprint. 

The city allows us to ponder. 
Dark towers ending into skies — blue and black, 
Like Stephen King, us, with pens in hand. 
If not to transmute beauty and understanding, then what?
Home is 
home is home. 

And yet, under towering trees and a countryside, 
Surrounded by monuments older than grandparents, 
The letters are different. 
Building blocks have shifted
Blank stares and the lengths between us.

We are encapsulated into beauty 
Like a baby born in a white hospital room —
With sun beaming through the largest of windows…
And yet the weight
In our chests
Are stones, 
unsure of their identity.

You have to leave 
to feel it.
You have to 
slip your colors. 
Home 
is home 
is home.

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