A Home Is What You Make It Poem by elysabeth faslund
A Home Is What You Make It
Moccasins shed skins against floorboards.
Broken, splintered. Slither. Stealth.
Silent.
Clay-packed crumbly brick. Fireplace glow.
Pecan, oak, cypress, piled under table,
Bed, in corners. Warmth.
Thick window velvet, tattered, bemused with
Years. Dust. Webs. Butlers...long ago
Gone.
One room parlor shack. Mansion cocooned
Moon whispers fluttering, flying lips shriveled.
Moving memories cracked, dry, dessicated.
One yellowed talon-nail scratched her pets
Ears...
'What does the outside do today, eh?
Is this not our world...
Is this not Paradise...? '
I hear a soft southern breeze whispering through the spanish moss as I read...and what a beauty!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
9/25/2024 12:37:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Yes, a home is what you make it. A home is made of people living in there, not by the furnishing placed in there. Nice poem with Eastern touch in last two lines.