In The Warmth Of Familiar Holidays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have a house that is fully grown:
I have a house that is a grandfather, who I bought from
A homosexual artist and his mother who
Was at least as old as this house:
He painted each room a different soft shade of shell,
And now each room flows around my barren body
While I think of Sharon and fireworks:
I think of the things that will sell, that aren’t already venal,
And yet are not scarred like me;
It must take a beautiful being to be not either of the two,
And yet someone who hasn’t seen the soft tips of mountains
Underneath the coiling planes of nimbus:
For surely the rains will be blocked up like traffic,
And they will wait for awhile like rabbits in the briars,
Enjoying their festivals until it is time again to escape:
Just as I can write my novels, and think upon Alma
And her warm children
While around me the people who are renting their bodies two one
Another make the sounds of a joyful orchard;
And if I have been away, it has only been to Arizona, or maybe
My soul has been away,
But the planets continue to shuffle their feet. They are getting cold
Waiting outside,
Wanting like little children, like us all, to return home once again,
Basking in the warmth of familiar holidays.