Coming home to myself

A poem about home is difficult.

Some say home is where the heart is, but

my heart is always with me.

Some say home is where I lay my hat, but

I don’t wear one of those.

Art and Garfunkel say home is where my love

lies waiting silently for me

but he’s not silent and wolf whistles

out the window when he sees

me trudging up the hill after my night shift.

Crosby, Stills and Nash say home is where there’s

two cats in the yard but I don’t have pets.

Roger Waters sang home was all about

warming his bones beside the fire, but

I live in the Sub Tropics.

Lynyrd Skynyrd come closer when

they sing about home being where the skies are so blue.

But I live in Australia, not Alabama.

Truly, is home even a place, a house, a city, a country, or

is it instead an idea, a state of mind, a feeling?

Is the ultimate home Heaven?

Does home have to involve others

or is it possible inside of all of us?

Perhaps home is a feeling of peace

and safety and contentment

that we must curate, cultivate, contemplate

and try not to complicate within ourselves.

Once attained, then home is with us anywhere we go

and it can’t be taken away from us.

Maybe we have to create our own home

through our thoughts and deeds.

We’re constantly remodeling, redecorating

and improving that safe space nestled in our souls

that we can pop into any time we want.