home is not a place
it is never a place

it is a feeling

sometimes,
if you’re lucky

it is a person

Picking up the petals
I walk around garden
Full with majestic sunflowers
Each of them have different story
Some of it are my favorite
Some of it not
I need them to grow
For me to remember
Up and down memories

Those hands
Speak more than does the face.
They clasp or lace,
They grip or poke
Hold firm.

They open in enquiry
Or close to form a fist
Or furl and unfurl to try and give the gist
Of some internal land.

Those hands I love
Are square and brown
With rough and bitten nails.
The finger ends are blunt,
The skin is coarse
With work.
Those hands are always warm and strong
And mine in his makes me a child again.

Hope
Rises
Like
A
Phoenix
From
  The
Ashes
Of
Shattered
Dreams