I don’t know what home is

I smell it in the smoke of a leaf pile
I see it in the mist that envelops mountains
I hear it in the soft patting of rain on roofs
I feel it in the sun that kisses skin
I taste it in the swirling dust of roundpens
Most often.  

But once

I smelled it in the perfume of barbecue
I saw it in the land that rolled on forever
I heard it in the crunch of snow underfoot
I felt it in the sting of rugs on knees
I tasted it in the crunch of donut holes

And sometimes

I’ll smell it in the must of old homes
I’ll see it in the color of muraled walls
I’ll hear it in the music played far too loud
I’ll feel it in the love of parts unknown
I’ll taste it in smiles given and received

I don’t know what home is

But somehow I always find it.