Although it is only August,
I see the season wind down.
There is a special blueness of the sky-
a perfume in the pine trees-
a bittersweet knowledge that what has been-
will soon no longer be.
It is this time of year
when I draw closer to my home.
I decorate it daily-
if just in my mind.
I find peace in the textures
and keepsakes
that surround me.
I like my bare feet on the carpet.
My blinds open wide to view the deer.
And my glasses wait on a nearby table,
ready for a fresh magazine
to arrive in the mail.
I like listening to music while I dust.
Sometimes it's a soft love song
and I waltz slowly at my task.
Other times,
I crank up the rock and roll
and swing wildly with the vacuum cleaner.
I make my bed.
Press all the wrinkles from the sheets
till they are tight and smooth-
fluff the head dimples from the pillows
and toss on a colorful comforter.
I ignore the thoughts of an early nap.
The house smells like hazelnut coffee.
And last nights casserole.
And the spiced apple candle that
burns to a nub on my desk.
I love my home because it is familiar.
It meshes with my bone
like a graft of memories.
It surrounds me with goodness
and safety
and a place for my dreams.
When it is absolutely quiet here,
I find my own voice.
I know myself.
And everything seems right.
