What Makes a Home

A home’s not just four walls and stone, Nor roof that shields when winds have blown. It’s laughter ringing through the air, A touch of love, a heart laid bare. It’s in the whispers late at night, A porch aglow with golden light. The scent of bread, the warmth of tea, A space where souls can wander free. It’s memories etched in faded frames, Soft lullabies and childhood games. The echo of a joyful cheer, The silent strength when storms appear. It’s not the paint, the doors, the size, But how a heart within it lies. A place where sorrow meets embrace, And weary feet find rest and grace. It’s morning sun on window panes, The rhythm of familiar rains. It’s knowing when the day is through, There’s always someone waiting too. No mansion grand, no treasure bright, Can match the warmth of love’s soft light. For home is where the heart finds peace, A sanctuary, love’s release. So build it not with brick alone, But kindness, trust—a love well sown. For homes are made of tender hands, Of open hearts and souls that stand.