Home is where memories settle,
to drink the wine, to eat the bread.
Home is the place to ponder a good
sleep.
Home is at the end of a journey,
a moment or step to eternity -  loved ones in tow.
Home is a  familiar path lined with familiar smells,
distinct and framed with stacks of emotion.
Home is the sick day,
the warm forehead, the cough.
Home is the familiar - a cup for  tea or
worn coat passed down to join us across
our journey, along our way.
Home is the pang of remembrance,
a tangible space, tradition.
Home is where we can wait for the final chapter of our lives , like an old friend holding the door open. Patiently waiting our last breath.
Home is the single right to be,
that  travels to the  next place, the next home.

Held up by its wind, a flag will ******.
The motion, so liquid,
so solemn and yet lucid.
Floating in its own breath,
meandering,
unleashed along nature’s footpath.
The wind ponders with instinctive movement through and around this clothed vessel.
There are no regards nor any purpose. 
The movement, the romance within this dance with nature is fearless.
The wind has its sweetest of palette – a flag.