I've only been living in this new apartment for a month and a half, but already it feels like home. But then, I suppose I know the cause of that.
Beneath the cedar and the stars
aligning in the evening sky -
old Sirius and rusty Mars -
reposes both my home and I.
How quietly we watch the night
grow deeper with the dipping sun,
as steady streams of people fight
against the red and angry run
of traffic flowing from the streets
that checker-box the city to
their empty houses. Each one greets
its occupant with silence. Who
would call these houses homes? Not I.
But then, my house is never dead,
and, in the evenings, there is my
own love to greet the one she wed.