Coming Home

The shutters are all closed

Floors dusty

No, dirty

Only the cat has tended to home

All this time

(And he doesn't sweep)

But the smell

Fills me

With memory

The trip was long

And I am sore

Yet my feet

Find a spot on the rug

To stand

Where I always have

In my mind

The windows greet me

Smiling with sunlight

The walls

I painted by hand

Are smooth under my fingertips

Vacations are bliss

And I know of those I have left

That I already miss

Terribly

But nothing compares

To the serenity

Of sitting in

Wallowing in

My own space

My own walls

My own work

At long last

I am home.