Thursday, February 19, 2009

because You're here.

There's something simmering on the stove every day
and
I'm thankful for the dirty dishes.


Against an old cold wall
there is a used couch,
with worn but inviting cushions.


There are crumbs sprinkled across the floor,
and paid bills in the drawer...
Snowfalls outside our window,
And books for books, in piles.


But there are no questions
Or
sealed boxes
in the
small closets
whose doors never close.


There are no flecks of insecurity
clinging like dust
to tired childhood belongings.


There is a peace
that comes with seeing
an unopened box of tissues...
next to my pillow
(next to you).


This is home:
With confidence and empty wallets
we can open the front door and smile,
even if and especially when
uncertainty rings like a desperate salesman.

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