Saturday, May 31, 2014

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.


Granny Kate said...

Spirit calls to Spirit --you're wise enough to know the land is alive and your land respects you right back. Such is the essence of home.

Sue said...

Roots are a wonderful thing, and you seem to have planted yours deeply in a wonderful place.

Home is my favorite place to be, too.


storytellermary said...

Beautiful! and happy anniversary as you continue to build such an interesting and loving life together. <3

Nance said...

your refrain echoes in my head and heart . . . land and home are sacred. The warmth and pull of the earth holds me hostage.

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