[two hundred, ninety-one]
shaking leaves in the trees quiver as
the rustle in the breeze near the back porch
liven me from my sleeping in the hot sun,
it is "home," sometimes,
and other times it looks just like a house,
and acts like one, it talks and bounces,
just like it should, but the inner workings,
the inner woods,
don't allow for much else, much more love,
or passion to enter...
and still I lay in the sun, basking like a raisin,
searching for my home in the better life,
the hovel for the looking, the place for a sleep,
the taking me back to my childhood dreams and memories,
a place, well, it was a place,
but it changed. It must have been.
It must have been the time of day where I would lay and scream all day,
just in incase, and so I hoped that "home" spoke louder than that.
focus: looking, searching, hunting. Wow, I'm ready for bed.
JESS
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