If I wanted 
to argue I’d
find a rock
or a stick
for they cannot 
if I wanted 
to love I’d 
rather not it
be a rock
or a stick 
for that which 
I love must
never hear anger
for the heart 
has no ears

Clouds are building 
out west above 
the mountains where 
the cold air 
of peaks meets 
the hot air 
of the plains 
like so many 
dinners when I 
was a child 
where the anger
of my father 
infused with brandy
met the cold
shouldered stare of 
my mother and 
the worst storms 
one could imagine 
erupted into the 
tears of blood 
lust and fury 

This is sanctuary 
a blessed place 
my little corner 
and private cloister
a spot a
dot a cot
where to dream 
rest and play 
a toasting place 
a roasting place 
but mostly now
my coasting place 
where the winds
of my life 
are finally calm

You can make 
so little so
much and so 
much so little 
and tiny things 
big and big 
things tiny and 
then there is 
the quiet middle 
that thin line 
of a lane
where hardly anyone 
ever knows or
ever goes knowing 
not that it’s 
there but where
when it’s found 
becomes one’s den
burrow or home 

In this quiet
dark where dreams 
fade and days
hope awaken like 
snowdrops and early 
spring daffodils I
sit here realizing 
that home has 
finally been found 
funny home this 
I never understood 
for home is
but a frame 
in which the 
art I am 
is displayed perfectly