This House This Home Poem by RIC BASTASA

in this house the music of the night
is the soft rain from the sky falling upon the grass

like tiptoeing mothers watching their young children
sleeping and kissing their foreheads

there is no burning fire here from wood
and there is no smoke from a cigarette

it is dark as usual but it is desirable
even darker as there are no stars tonight

i am not sad
i am at home with myself in this house

i hear the symphony of winds and whispers
from the leaves of trees and the chants of earthworms

it is cold and so i have closed all the windows and doors
& then i curl beneath my blanket of roses