The afternoon is hot and I lay in my bed, blankets thrown back, sheet not exactly cool
I’m reading Mary Oliver, of her love of her Lord, and pondering how I have none, anymore
I’m reading of her dog, whom she lost and grieved, and I remember why I buy her books
The fans are on high and the windows open and I close my eyes to visit old Summers
Soft green grass, weedless due to a squatting Gramma, in a yard framed with purple Iris
I smell them now, just the right amount of sweet, against which all other scents are measured
Was that home? A backyard on a rural road, behind a pale green house?
Was that home? The rock garden and the tractor sprinkler that rolled across Prairie days?
Perhaps it was then, the essence of Heaven-on-Earth, lush with color and sealed from time
But now I place Home with God, in a mind-space just to the left of yesterday
My eyes are open and through the window I see evidence of a breeze
It is the final day of June, and my cup brims with nostalgia