it’s home

I. Spring

it’s the tallness
of pompous grass
the leanness
of poplar trees
i know

II. Summer

it’s a glass of sugar tea
ice cubes swirling
around a slender spoon

it’s a garden hose
draped in my hand
my thumb knowing
what to do
to fan water
evenly over my plot
before dusk
hints at turning
the sky pink,
orange and red,
then black

III. Winter

it’s work boots

IV. Fall

it’s the kids’ tree
swing i tie off
on a sturdy branch

it’s done


dad makes a home for RT



    • I know we share the same Midwest roots. I think the land is beautiful too! My dad is 72, and spending a lot of time facing his own mortality. Life is a funny thing, we never know if it’s enough, if we’ve done enough

  1. “Home” has that specificity — a knowing iteration of it’s — “it’s the tallness/of pompous grass” — which add up to only one location possible. If home is the heart’s true north, it points unfailingly (here). Yes!

  2. The gardener in me relates(in fact, my own thoughts for this challenge involve the seasons) This is delicate, luminous and full of both suggestion and specificity, allusion and example, painting a very real scene of the way we nurture and are nurtured by that elusive thing we call home. (I especially loved ‘pompous grass…’)

  3. A home for all seasons, a true home as tender and as tended as its beautiful garden.
    Kind regards
    Anna :o]

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