Calling Home

 

There is no waterfall, no creek or ocean tides;

There is no stunning mountain view or burbling brook, not even an ocean vista,

city skyscape, small town skyline or undulating rows of prairie corn.

I wonder sometimes, what is it about this land,

this particular piece of Planet Earth, 

that has made it my place for forty years or more?

What made me choose this isolated ridge, 

grub out gardens and snake a road down to where

my home is tucked against the side of a hill

Where none can see it without purposeful destination?

I cannot say; I only know that when I am here,

When I sit beneath the fifty-foot tall maple grown from seed,

Or put my jars of summer’s gardens inside the stone cellar 

moved and rebuilt by our hands, one stone at a time;

When I hear the hawk sing, the whippoorwill call

or the hens squawk as they settle for then night;

when I call my dogs and hear my voice echo, echo, echo

against the circling hills,

All I can say is that this is where I am.

This is where I belong.

This is the place that I call home.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.