Homespirit

There is a hum in my home.

None that radiate from the disrepair of flickering bulbs, record player left softly spinning, or the defusing crackle of a TV that's been switched off, sizzling into an electronic sleep.

It is an invisible plasma that sings inside the walls, seeping out of the baseboards, and clings to the linoleum floors as a fog does in a harvest moon's night-tide. It's spiritual luminessence is as cheerful a faun's song and as eerily serene as neon lights peered down long country roads.

It possesses our belongings; draping over and sinking in.

Three bookcases housing Dostoevsky, Charles Dickens, Douglas Adams, an array of toys, coins and Christmas cards All sigh in resign to their cozy nooks. A bike lazes at the cabinet's wooden feet, it's metal bones leaning into it's well-read brother, holding him there until the pavement calls him home.

A hum bristles three fat cats plopped like mossy stones amidst an undulating river, purring in the shape of animated Z's that trickle off and disappear into the aria.

There is a hum that journeys as a flame does a gasoline stream to ignite and warm the boxspring to which I submerge and liquify amongst the cotton sheet's embrace.

The walls soften to warm golden coils that drip as paint does into pools of light in the flue of my vision giving surrender to dreams.

My spirit humming.