this house is not a home

this house is not a home. i dont remember
the sight of home, exactly, but i know
there was an embrace
and refreshment on a shoulder,
in a hand. at home, i myself was different-
but this is true of every boarder
right?

this house is not a home
with its rent blue curtains
and gold-overlaid sculptures.
it is a place to bow, to dance,
to sing and make music,
to lie on a bed
in only meditation.
i labor for this temple,
care for it, make it useful.
it houses others
from time to time.

this house is not a home
but in the yard it gets closer.
in the space between
our two houses under a divided
firmament we can worship
in embrace. this is a time
of memory and prophecy,
when i ride on shoulders
or give you my hand
and we work out
everlasting love
from our souls
till we can almost touch.

this house is not a home.
it would be far better to leave it,
and sometimes i feel this truth
scraping at my flesh.
i make a needful choice,
only comforted in knowing their end.
Thank God, this is not my home,
and someday

i will take off my fleshly robe
and stay awhile
into eternity.