milk jade spiders
stowaways   from our past home
a pout of breeding pouch
appears
our new home   is similarly blessed

So many roads lead back home,
But not the one where I was born.
That first wet road was slippery,
With curves and hills and holes,
But every mile I travelled on,
Without knowing, I headed home.

Those many highways,
Like a wheel,
Were radiating spokes,
But like the wheel,
They're circular,
So always lead back home.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his clear voice, one I knew I knew,
seeking me out, drawing me in
from the dark.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his broad shoulders as he lifts me,
carrying me back to good pasture,
back home.

I place my faith in the battered shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders forgiving enough to haul a cross,
strong enough to bear my full weight
whatever the cost.

Yes, I believe in the shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders broad enough for every black sheep,
strong enough when we are lost
and when we are weak.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus –
throwing his arms welcome wide
and lifting me into this embrace,
safe from all wolves and the thickest of thickets.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus
betraying His Father’s family trait
of rescue and acceptance.

I believe in the good shoulders of Jesus.
That’s where I place my faith.

I have taken my daughter
back to where she now lives
but she still calls this space
home
a word that describes so much
more
than just four walls and a roof
this is love, this is sanctuary, this is
roots
as long as we exist on this earth
this will always be where you
belong

Not being the one to do the work
Of mowing my lawn every couple of weeks
Waking up or passing out to
Hands on a pushmower out my bedroom window
The landscapers scaping the land
At what feels like the crack of dawn
Waking up to a full compost bin
And a barren backyard
It’s a trip
Nothing inside is maintained
With the same aim to minimize clutter
And maximize space - open space
It’s like nothing is better to look at
Than thriving - expanding environments
Left to incorporate anything ready to grow
Refuse accepted as art as it piles up
Hoarding possibilities and information
And meaningful clutter
Gutting it isn’t just clean
It’s reductive

No quiero vivir donde
My people aren’t elated
Pentru să vin acasă.

I am greeted with tears in their eyes
Își iau avânt să mă întâlnesc căt mai rapid
Estoy envuelto en los abrazos más grandes.

They insist to hold my bags for me,
Una mano en mi espalda y la otra en mi equipaje
Mă ghidează la parcare.

Niciodată întreb pentru o călătorie
Una experiencia impagable por el amor que me rodea.
I always get a pang of emotions even for others experiencing the same with their family.

Never enough time
Niciodată destul timp
Nunca suficiente tiempo.

I felt so alone.
every place I went. every place I stopped to visit.
Seemed off.
I followed the noise of everything around me
in the hope of finding something familiar.
I rounded corners, crossed mazes of streets.
I didn't feel like I belonged to any of these places.
mostly filled with strange looks. anxious behavior.
still, I walked.
big city life is too busy.
always somewhere to be. always something to do.
it's easy to lose track of time.
keeping up with the next thing to do, the next place to be.
I felt so alone.
my walk becoming more unease. my shoulders more tense.
nothing really felt warm.
everyone felt cold, lost in the hustle of busy feet.
Shoulders almost bumping into each other,
Cars screeching their horn almost running into the other.
the sanctuary of what I really needed seemed far away.
still, I walked.
meeting the avenue of your eyes. you.
you seemed different.
far different than any place I’ve been.
I felt like I’ve been here before, or at least
Would remember if I’ve dreamed about it.
I didn't need to look at a menu to know what I wanted.
there wasn't a question of where I’d sit, or if there'd be
a seat by the window.
No remembering if I needed to stop at an ATM or if I had the right
Amount of money. I felt at ease.
I immediately knew what I wanted and where I wanted to be.
if I did continue to walk, it would be into tomorrow.
so that I could come back here.
a patron whose face would take no time to remember.
when the weeks turn into years.
I’ll remember to tell you; this is how I got home