Some call home four walls and a roof;
others claim those close to the heart
form a loving embrace.
I find definitions imperfect.

Home makes my mind spin,
fingers searching to hold on to
that one-of-a-kind sentiment,
or certain place I belong.

Images burst free like butterflies –
colours, soaring sounds, sensations.
Memories stream before me,
a rainbow in every hue.

Lips spread into a smile
as places within me come alive.
My mind takes me back . . .
throws the time-travel key.

My sister’s arm around me,
we sing into ends of skipping ropes
to please an imaginary crowd.
We chase dreams made of clouds.

Azure water is a glassy mirror,
and the abyss beneath a place of peace
wherein I drop a callused hand
to find all my fears disappear.

The sun pours down beams of gold,
Ma beside me as we lie in the heat
– hands clasped together –
and sip cool lemonade on the porch.

Home is not a single place.
It’s a state of mind.
Pictures captured in time.
Memories mark where I belong.