There is a place for me.
Kitchen chairs scrape wooden floors
white wood painted cupboards full
of shiny cans and handmade soaps.
Chicken wired old screen frames
yawn and stretch to let me thru.
I'll belong here.
Old rag rug holds tiny tiptoes and
cold winter floorboards
beneath tired morning feet.
I'll leave my soul here.
Ring of beige where my teacup sits
Every day, at 7.
That old chest holds winters quilts
and fine linen for fine guests.
Where the big tall  bed has a throw of ivory
bumps of cotton form swirls I've matted down
with my fingers.
Where plants grow rogue in the picture window
and ladybugs are welcome,
but spiders leave (alive).
I will walk here, the same creaking floorboards
night after sleepless night touching lightly
the pictures of the grand hotels
from the grand trips we took
to foreign lands-always happy to come home.
Watching children grow to grow their own
And me with  hair to grey
and eyes to blur.
Softer in the folds around my neck
and softer in the folds round my soul.
Less to anger than to forgive.
Less to eat than to feed...
Soles of childrens small feet
grow to the hurried pace of grown men.
Teddy's left in corners to come home to one day soon.
I give myself here.
Running my thumb up the rough porous brick.
Letting the ivy grow wild.
Raking leaves from ancient trees
that whisper secrets on snowy nights.
Christmas lights, and wedding nights
and times of tears and
learning how to be simple folk.
There is a place for me.
Find me here among all this,
for I belong, amongst the lost prayers, I belong.

Sahn 7/12/14