mid-morning

My home is a tent high on a mountain, and I can see far in so many directions. I jump from rock to rock, the bones of the earth, waving my arms. I am a child. Snow falls. My home is a house on stilts, with a big stove. My home sits in a bed of garden, and I grow basil under my windows. I leave pies on the window sill by the kitchen, and if you are hungry from your traveling, you can eat as you like. My home has no screens or curtains, and music escapes as sea breeze finds a way in. Sometimes, often, sand sneaks in the doorway. My home is filled with smiles from children, and I can feel them through the walls. My home sits above cold, clear water. I can hear the language of rivers and streams and the starts of the sea from my bed. It smells of cedar and wool blankets.

I wake up in the morning, early morning, when the world is still colored blue from the leaving darkness of the night before. The sky is beginning to say goodbye to the moon, and it is chilly. I hold my coffee with two hands, close, and I go outside to gather wishes and thoughts for the day. I litter my home with them. They are treasure underfoot. They gather in corners from the days before, and sometimes they hum in the corners of where the ceiling meets the walls, wondering why they were forgotten.  Sometimes, they disappear. Sometimes, they disappear when I turn to go back into the house.