Year by year

Home is the slow morning kind of place where the day doesn't rush me awake light spills in as if it knew my name and time agrees to move gently Home knows my habits and keeps them anyway the mug I always reach for the song I hum without realizing Nothing there asks me to be different it’s where effort dissolves into ease where I can speak in half-thoughts and still be understood Where my presence hasn’t been earned it’s assumed Home is made up of small daily things extra chairs, open doors, food produced with no occasion in mind it’s the warmth that doesn’t announce itself it just stays Sometimes the space is a room Sometimes it’s a voice calling me back Sometimes it’s the way my chest feels when I finally exhale Home repeats itself a place that believes in my return a place that grows with me, room by room, year by year